


The Likelihood of Distinct Possibilities

by MirrorShard (petroltogo)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU after HBP, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Past Child Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, F/F, F/M, Genius Hermione, Genius Ron, Het and Slash, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Intelligent!Trio, M/M, Magical Bond, Sane Voldemort, Strong Order, howourchoicesdefineus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/MirrorShard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In retrospect, we should have really seen this coming."</p><p>There was a 64 per cent chance of Voldemort killing Harry Potter. There was a 31.8 per cent chance of Harry Potter killing Voldemort. There was also a 4.2 per cent chance of Harry Potter accidentally acquiring a following of homicidal Junior Death Eathers that may or may not be plotting his death.  </p><p>To say that Harry's last year at Hogwarts was memorable would probably be a bit of an understatement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaded

_They are not just children, Harry. They are also their parents heirs. In our world that means something, whether we like to acknowledge it or not_.

—Ron Weasley

* * *

Harry Potter hated arguments.

It didn't matter if they were loud and emotional, driven by yelled profanities and righteous anger, or deceptively quiet like a simmering caldron, seconds before the inevitable explosion. Both were equally dangerous in their own right and, as far as Harry was concerned at least, both were a pointless waste of time, resources and energy.

So, really, if one were to take all these facts into consideration it was only logical for Harry to despise them as much as he did. In fact his disregard for the uncomfortable and usually quite painful confrontations was nothing short of reasonable.

Anyone could have told you that.

(There was also the widely unacknowledged theory of a certain brilliant muggleborn witch, who suspected that growing up in an unstable, abusive and violent environment might have something to do with this particular quirk of Harry Potter—but, of course, nobody talked about that.)

But all theories and rationalisations aside, everything came down to the simple fact that Harry Potter absolutely hated arguments. As a matter of fact the only thing he hated even more was having an argument with his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.

Running his fingers through his thick, black hair—and ignoring how he messed it up even more than usual in the process—Harry grimaced as he recalled the last time the three of them had had a fight of this magnitude back in their fourth year.

It hadn't been pretty.

That was the problem with their close friendship; they tended to make allowances for each other all the time and only when they disagreed about something big, something _fundamental_ did things ever come to a head.

Something like his 'appalling disregard for his own safety'.

Which meant that they rarely got into a serious fight, but when they did, they _clashed_. Violently so.

_Jaded_

Harry leaned his head against the window of his compartment and stared blearily at the packed platform nine and three-quarters. Had the circumstances been different, the sight of worried mothers, scolding fathers and crying siblings might have filled him with the sort of bitter melancholy only an orphan could truly understand. An incomprehensible sensation of _losing something you don't remember owning in the first place_.

As it was though Harry was simply too tired to care about all those broken childhood dreams he would never be able to fulfil. Too tired even to resent the world for what it had taken from him, yet handed away so freely to everyone else. It was a dangerous train of thought and Harry knew better than to acknowledge them in front of anyone but his most trusted companions.

His currently very much absent companions. Damn it, he _hated_ arguing with his friends.

For a moment Harry contemplated searching for them—the train was only so long after all—but he was in no shape to withstand another argument, never mind win one. Their talk would have to wait and, considering they had about nine months of being locked away in the same castle to look forward to, Harry was in no particular hurry. Hermione and Ron weren't going anywhere—nor was he, for that matter.

Besides after the excitement of the last couple of weeks he had definitely earned a few hours of rest. Thanks to the dubious care his relatives tended to bestow upon him, Harry had never looked forward to the summer holidays the way other children did. But this year they had been especially taxing—and for once it truly hadn't been the Dursley's fault.

Of course that might have something to do with the fact that he had barely seen them, having left Privet Drive the second the Order of the Phoenix had found a way to bring him to the Headquarters that they deemed _save_. Considering that two people had lost their lives because of their ridiculous scheme Harry was reluctant to trust their judgement.

Had he known that surviving their inane plan would lead to him becoming an unofficial prisoner in his late godfather's ancestral home and being forced to fight for his most basic human rights on a daily basis, Harry might have taken his chances with the Death Eaters instead. But that was the wisdom of hindsight for you.

In all honesty, it was a miracle bordering on divine intervention that he had even been _graciously allowed_ to return to Hogwarts. Never mind that he was seventeen and a legal adult, perfectly capable of making his own decisions, as far as the Magical World was concerned. Of course he was Harry Potter and Harry Potter always was the exception of the rule when it suited them, wasn't he?

On some level Harry understood his friends' concern and even appreciated it—not that he would ever admit that out loud, there was no need to encourage their protective urges after all. He _knew_ that Hogwarts would be different this year, hell, everybody knew that.

Albus Dumbledore had _died_ , murdered by Severus Snape of all people. Not that people hadn't joked about it in passing, but nobody had thought it would actually happen. The mere idea of Hogwarts without the ever-twinkling headmaster was- inconceivable, really.

And no matter how much the fall of his mentor still haunted Harry at night— _"Severus,_ please _!", green, flash, silence_ —Professor Dumbledore's death wasn't as devastating as what his ending stood for. What it _meant_.

Voldemort was ready. His strongest opponent, thought to be almost untouchable by many, had been defeated. His most dangerous servants had recovered in body, although most likely not in mind, from the damage Azkaban had caused them. The resistance within the woefully unprepared ministry was weak and Harry personally suspected it would be a matter of mere weeks until the elected government would fall.

Once that happened, Voldemort would be free to concentrate on the only obstacle left to his reign, the one stronghold the Order of the Phoenix had diligently defended in the wake of their leader's loss: Hogwarts.

Well, Harry Potter and Hogwarts.

No, Harry held no illusions about the state his beloved school, his _home_ , would be in this year. Attending Hogwarts had never been without risks, death traps, Basilisks, deranged professors and Quidditch games had taught him that lesson early on. But he knew without a shred of doubt that this year everything would change.

This year Hogwarts would turn into the battle ground everyone liked to pretend it could never be. It would be ugly. It would be bloody. People— _children_ —would probably die. An escalation, sooner or later, depending on Voldemort's success on the ministry front, was unavoidable.

Harry was well-aware of all these things and had been even before the more opinionated Order members had heard of his plans to return and started their protests. He didn't need Madeye Moody reminding him of the Death Eater invasion and the headmaster's subsequent death every god damn minute—and he appreciated it even less.

He didn't need Ron's comments regarding the evilness of Slytherins either, but at least those helped all of them remember that not everything had changed. Some things were still the same, _they_ were still the same, and no matter how small and insignificant they seemed, Harry had learned to cherish those last remains of the children they used to be.

But it didn't matter. In the end nobody had been able to change his mind, though certainly not for lack of trying. Harry wanted to go to Hogwarts and nothing was going to stop him from doing just that. He had convinced the Sorting Hat to put him into Gryffindor when he was eleven, he was not going to let a bunch of self-proclaimed fighters of justice push him around now that he was older, thank you very much.

To say the Order hadn't been happy with his decision was like stating that Moody had a scar or two. And when logic and rational arguments couldn't move him, certain members had started to up their game.

Harry still wasn't sure why they thought that telling him about how his parents would be disappointed in him and that he was sullying Lily's sacrifice would in any way endear them to him—and quite frankly he had no desire to find out.

Things got so bad that Harry refused to stay in the same room with anyone unless he was accompanied by Hermione or one of the Weasleys. Perhaps he was becoming a tad paranoid, barely escaping assassination attempts on his life from the tender age of one tended to have that effect, but Harry wasn't the open child he used to be.

Trust was not something to be given lightly when you were known as the saviour of the Wizarding World. And the enemy of your enemy wasn't so much your friend as a potential foe you couldn't afford to offend.

Rationally Harry knew that he had very little to fear from Madeye and his men, especially when compared to what his fate at the hands of Death Eaters would look like. They didn't want to kill him or torture him after all, nor did they plan on torturing his friends into insanity to ensure his compliance. He _knew_ that. But rationality had always been more Hermione's forte. Harry's instincts were telling him to be wary of the Order and he trusted his instincts.

They might worry about his safety, might even think him too young to fully understand the seriousness of war. And while Harry and Ron relished in pointing out that they had fought Voldemort for years without adults around to shelter and protect them, those fights had only been small-scale attacks. None of their adventures had prepared them for the realities of a civil war. They would never be prepared. But that didn't mean that they wouldn't give their best to survive it anyways.

The real problem wasn't that the adults didn't know what they were talking about, it was that he couldn't trust their motives. None of these men and women, hardened by pain and grief from the first war, cared about Harry as a person. To them he was a figurehead, a symbol. The Boy-Who-Lived. They cared about his welfare, but only to the extent that he would still be able to do his job, pull off the impossible and defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort.

And Harry didn't blame them. He really didn't. He wasn't bitter—except maybe a little, because knowledge did not soothe pain, the way reason could not justify all sacrifices—he was just honest.

Most of these people didn't even know him. Oh, they knew _of_ him, but they weren't his friends or family or even acquaintances, and as such their interest in him did not venture far beyond self-preservation and an absent-minded curiosity. Besides they had their own loved ones to worry about. Harry could hardly condemn them for that.

He could however fear the measures they would be willing to take to ensure Voldemort's demise. He hadn't missed the rising tension in the headquarters, hadn't missed that Moody's grumbled words that used to be _warnings_ had begun to sound suspiciously like _threats_. And he certainly hadn't missed the changes in the command structure.

With their revered leader lost, most had turned to the seemingly most reasonable replacement: Madeye Moody. No one could doubt his abilities, nor his dedication to the light side. As a strong second came Kingsley Shacklebolt who had the calm air of a competent leader that Moody was so thoroughly lacking.

They were good men and capable fighters. But they were also more radical than Dumbledore had ever been and determined to end the war—by any means necessary. Harry could understand the sentiment, but he wasn't as sure about their methods as he would have liked.

All that 'the end justifies the means' talk didn't sit well with him. Particularly since the fact that he wasn't following their advice like a lost puppy seemed to gradually move him from the 'asset' to the 'obstacle' category. Harry had witnessed Moody dealing with an obstacle once, he had no desire to do it ever again.

He didn't want to know how far the Order would be willing to go to ensure their victory and being hidden away in a safe house where they would be in full control of him seemed like the surest way to find out.

No, Harry preferred to take his chances at Hogwarts where the lines between friends and enemies had already been drawn in the sand years ago. Besides what good would it do for him to be locked away and trained until Moody deemed him ready to fulfil the damned prophecy? What would be left of the world by the time he might match Voldemort in magic and skill, should that moment ever occur?

Harry feared the answers to those questions. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was reckless, maybe he was risking the fate of the entire world just to stand by his friends' side in a fight they were doomed to lose, but Harry didn't care.

He had loved Dumbledore, had looked up to the man as a guide and mentor, but Harry wasn't like him. He didn't believe in ideals and greater goods. He believed in his friends and he would rather die by their side, protecting them, than take the chance of losing them while he was busy playing hero. He had chosen them over everyone else and he would do it again.

It was a cruel choice, a selfish one even, but then the Slytherin traits had always been so much stronger in Harry than in any other Gryffindor. It caused his light to shine brighter, even as the path it illuminated twisted and turned.

He couldn't be sure, but Harry suspected his friends knew those things, knew more about his motivations than they led on. That the inevitable fight over Hogwarts was coming closer with each passing day was obvious to anyone—it was a miracle so many families still sent their children there, though the wards were admittedly more secure than anything their homes would have to offer—and Ron and Hermione's anger stemmed from the same fear of losing him that had plagued him in the last few months.

They would have to talk about that, and soon.

But for now Harry decided to enjoy the quiet and get some sleep whilst he still had the chance. Everyone knew that peace didn't last around him for long and something was bound to go wrong soon enough. He had to take what he could get, as usual.

His eyes felt more heavy with every passing minute and with a resigned sigh Harry allowed himself to give into the bone-crushing exhaustion he felt. And despite his whirling thoughts of _war_ and _enemies_ and _broken futures_ he dreamt of flying.

_Jaded_

Adrian Pucey loved illusions.

It was a good thing really, considering his entire life was built around them. Being raised in a fairly old, but not particularly powerful or outstanding pureblood family and later on—as was expected of him—sorted into Slytherin, Adrian had learned early on how to deceive the world, if only to ensure his own survival.

His reputation as the 'Ravenclaw of Slytherin' was perhaps his first and greatest success to date. It had taken surprisingly little to craft the image of a studious, quiet scholar for himself. Really, the true challenge hadn't so much been getting people to believe the mask he presented them, but staying true to said mask for almost eight years of his life.

Adrian enjoyed playing games as much as the next guy, but there was something exhausting about keeping up the farce day in, day out. Especially around those trice-damned Gryffindors that just begged to be cursed in the back.

But he had stayed true to his mask, always certain that one day his comparably harmless reputation would give him the edge needed to pull the house of Pucey from the shadows of the wizarding world's memory once and for all.

Even as a child Adrian had established himself as somewhat of a protege, intelligent, attentive and talented. Not quite a genius, but promising all the same. His private tutors had never tired of praising him and at Hogwarts he had effortlessly taken the top spot in his year.

But Dumbledore's deep-seated mistrust when it came to talented Slytherins was no secret and so Adrian had learned quickly to keep his head down, avoided any confrontations and stand out nowhere except in his academic records. There was no reason to draw undesirable attention towards himself and more importantly there was nothing to gain from such a move.

Of course his reputation also meant that it had come as a complete surprise for everyone when Adrian Pucey had failed his final year exams. With a record of straight Os and the occasional EE thrown into the mix it had baffled his professors and classmates alike when their star student and been forced to repeat his seventh year.

But even the best sometimes lost their heads during the highly demanding NEWT exams and once the initial shock died down, few people bothered to give him a second glance. His friends however knew very well that Adrian _never_ lost his head, especially not during something as inconsequent as a test. Adrian had been forced to bring _His_ name up to keep them from investigating events that were better left alone.

Still, when the perfect and composed Adrian failed his NEWTs for the second time his professors should have definitely become suspicious. In all honesty, they most likely would have, if not for the incident near the end of the school year. Also known as the unexpected death of Albus Dumbledore. The chaos the devastating loss for the Light had caused had been all Adrian needed to successfully slip into his third seventh year, unnoticed and unquestioned.

The professors were far too occupied with the war looming on their doorstep to care why the clever Slytherin was still at Hogwarts. Not to forget that they would hardly deny a poor, frightened pureblood the protection the school wards offered, now would they?

Adrian's lips twitched as he tried to suppress the smug smirk that desperately wanted to make itself known. It was hardly his fault that the flawless Light was so easily fooled now, was it?

_Jaded_

With a practiced aura of superiority and condescendence Adrian undid the laughably simple locking charm and opened the door of _his_ compartment. Of course the compartment wasn't actually his although the Pucey's had the money to buy themselves the whole train, let alone a compartment, should they so desire. Such extreme means usually weren't necessary though, since most children were just too lazy to walk to the end of the train. It helped that this side was considered Slytherin territory and the snakes were well-known for defending what was theirs with lethal viciousness.

Adrian also knew that none of his housemates would dare to sit in this particular compartment without an explicit invitation. He had made sure of that and thankfully, in a house that valued self-preservation, not much was necessary to get the message across.

Which meant whoever had dared to try and lock him out of his own compartment was probably an idiotic Gryffindor or Hufflepuff child or a first year who didn't know the unspoken rules of Hogwarts yet.

Well, Adrian thought with a dark smirk, he was absolutely delighted to teach the kid quite a few of those rules, though the pleasure would most decidedly be one-sided.

It wasn't a first year, Adrian realised the moment he opened the door fully. Still, his guess hadn't been completely off the mark either. But even though he had expected a Gryffindor, Adrian certainly hadn't expected to encounter _the_ Gryffindor.

Harry _fucking_ Potter was sitting in _his_ compartment—and he was sleeping. The idea alone was so absurd that Adrian struggled wrap his mind around what his eyes were so clearly telling him. Slowly, as if he was in a trance, Adrian closed the door and sat on the seat across from Potter, who showed no sign of waking up.

 _This was unexpected. Most unexpected indeed_. Idly playing with his wand the Slytherin took his time to observe the Boy-Who-Lived. He was in no hurry after all.

The boy was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that spoke of short nights and restless dreams. _How interesting_. Adrian had heard rumours that Potter suffered from nightmares, but he had also heard that the boy was in a secret relationship with four Hufflepuff girls. But it appeared that for once the rumour mill had been correct after all. Adrian feverishly hoped that Parkinson would never learn of this, the girl would be even more unbearable than usually.

Absently he wondered if Dumbledore's murder had anything to do with the boy's sleeping troubles, then discarded the thought as irrelevant. Adrian didn't care about Potter, never mind his nightmares. Well, in a way he did, but it was less _caring_ about the guy and more _counting on his death_.

Adrian frowned. Sitting here and watching the boys peaceful expression, it felt almost disturbing to think these thoughts, even in the privacy of his own mind. Potter looked so fucking _young_ in that moment that, try as he might, Adrian couldn't fully suppress a sudden sense of unease at wishing the boy harm.

How had this _child_ for the lack of a better word managed to defy the Dark Lord? He looked so small right now, so vulnerable, so easily destroyed. And yet Adrian had to wonder how many people had once shared his thoughts, had fallen victim to Potter's harmless appearance and were now dead or in Azkaban because of it. Underestimating the enemy was dangerous, he knew that. Every Slytherin knew that.

 _And yet_.

Leaning against the back of his seat Adrian gradually allowed himself to relax. It was becoming obvious that Potter would sleep for a while, he might as well use the time to read up on the use of ancient runes in different cultures thorough the sixteenth century.

By now self-study on the most random topics was the only way Adrian could entertain himself—well, the only legal way in any case. Repeating the same year—twice—was many things but interesting definitely wasn't one of them. Of course Adrian could hardly complain. Nobody had forced him to accept this mission and he had known very well what it would entail.

By the time Potter woke up, he had already reached chapter nine and was just pondering a particularly fascinating theory on the different uses of the seven runes of protection. His wand automatically slid into his hand the moment Potter let out a quiet groan for the first time, but Adrian made a show of calmly finishing the paragraph and carefully marking the page before he finally looked up.

"Done playing Sleeping Beauty, Potter?" he smirked.

 _This was going to be good_. He would make sure of it.

The boy sleepily opened his eyes with a small yawn on his lips and met Adrian's cool eyes without hesitation.

It was in that moment that it happened. The one possibility the Order of the Phoenix and the Dark Lord Voldemort in all their scheming and planning had failed to account for. The one flaw in a net of carefully constructed plans that could cause the whole web to unravel.

It was a glitch in the system. A fated mistake that had never been meant to be. Brought forth by the fading power of a broken prophecy and bound by the ties of a destiny that would never be fulfilled.

Because when Adrian Pucey met Harry Potters wide, innocent, green eyes, he saw the most breathtaking illusion he had ever seen.

And Adrian Pucey loved illusions.

**End of Chapter 1**


	2. Fascinated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry isn't stupid, having a genius best friend is mostly just trouble (though the same could be said for being Harry Potter so it's really a moot point either way) and the future of the Wizarding World may or may not depend on a Gryffindor's honour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the late update! The truth is I completely forgot I hadn't updated this chapter yet *facepalm* Yes, I can't believe it either! Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter, though it's off to a bit of a slow start, all things considered. Have a great weekend everybody!

 

* * *

_He possesses a power you can not fight nor deny, a power you welcome as your salvation even at the cost of your own demise._

—Rabastan Lestrange

* * *

Contrary to popular belief Harry Potter was not stupid.

He couldn't follow abstract logic with the same ease Hermione was capable of, nor was he blessed with a calculated understanding of actions and consequences the way Ron had been. Harry wasn't an academic by nature. He found no joy in theoretical discussions and the contemplation of hypothetical scenarios. He didn't care about books and laws and figuring out eight different ways to reach the same goal, only to decide on the ninth one in the end.

No, Harry didn't care about facts or numbers and everyone knew it. But what only a very small circle of people ever bothered to realise was that neither of those things made him _stupid_. Because like every other person Harry had his own strengths, his own talents, and if they just so happened to slip through the cracks of Hogwarts' standard curriculum, well, that was too bad, wasn't it?

The truth was that despite his quite impressive reputation there were very few things about Harry that were truly extraordinary. Especially when compared to the brilliant—scarily so—minds of his closest friends. Not that anyone had ever bothered to recognise their potential. That was the price they payed for being his friends. A price Harry was all too aware of.

It really was sad how blinded people were by the perceived importance of a silly scar. Too blinded to realise what they had lost.

But while Hermione inhaled complex magical theory like other people breathed air and Ron could outmanoeuvre even Albus Dumbledore, as had been proven by a legendary chess game during their last winter break, there was one thing Harry truly excelled in. One thing that would forever elude his dear friends, not because it was overly complicated or hard to gain, but simply because it went beyond hard facts and cold logic.

Because Harry could do the one thing that Hermione was almost completely incapable of doing, the one thing that Ron constantly struggled with: he trusted his instincts.

Instincts that had first developed in the hostile environment he had grown up in, an environment that had stunted him in some ways, yet caused him to evolve in others. He was human, as Ron liked to tell him whenever they talked about these sort of things, late at night when the common room had been abandoned for hours and the last flames slowly died away. And humans were nothing if not adaptable.

During his years at Hogwarts frequent attempts on his life, monsters and the fickle admiration of the other students had forced Harry to hone those skills to perfection. He would have never survived the Heir of Slytherin debacle in his second year otherwise. Then there was also the fact that he spent five years living in the same house as the Weasley twins.

Sometimes, Harry thought in annoyance, people really didn't appreciate the amount of effort it took him just to make it to through another school year.

Actually he was pretty sure Fred and George had a betting pool regarding his eventual demise going and with every year that he came back to Hogwarts, more people lost their money. It shouldn't surprise anyone to know that Ron had been the first one to place a bet.

 _Not that I'd let let you die on my watch, mate, but you've got to admit you have the worst luck ever. And this way, at least I'll get some money out of it_ , thad been the infamous words that had started an exodus as literally every Gryffindor bar Hermione scrambled to put their bets down as quickly as possible. Their logic being that if he didn't hex his best friend for it, then he certainly wouldn't hex a practical stranger either.

Harry had been best friends with Ron and Hermione for two and a half years at that point and he still didn't understand why it never occurred to the other students that Ron being his friend might be the only thing holding him _back_.

Needless to say it had been a fun afternoon. Chris Felton still twitched every time Harry entered his line of sight, which he did as often as possible. It never failed to make him smile—and that was usually the point at which Felton either fainted or ran into a wall.

The point was that Harry survived time and time again, against all odds. And despite what Snape, Umbridge and lots of other spineless, spiteful bastards would tell you, it wasn't just about luck. It was part of it—luck was _always_ a part of it, whether it was the good or the bad kind—, but it wasn't the sole reason.

His instincts—drilled into him from an early age, to _do_ , to _react_ _and be fast about it_ , his ability to trust his gut feeling, to jump to conclusions because they just _felt right_ —, _that_ was a big part of it too.

Then there was the power, which, well. It certainly didn't hurt.

(Hermione would probably try to tell you that Harry, in his own, different way, was just as clever as she was and that this was the real reason why he did so well in situations that would have overwhelmed fully grown men, but Harry liked to tune her out at that point. Her and Ron, who would then start another rant about how Harry banking on his emotional responses was a subconscious attempt to define himself through something his friends were lacking and create his own identity or similar nonsense.)

But at the end of the day it came all down to his instincts. Harry was sure of it.

And it were those trusted instincts of his that told him he was in serious trouble the second Harry was conscious enough to process that thought.

It was a nice way to wake up, almost reassuring. Because he was on the train to Hogwarts—against the Order's wishes because it wasn't _safe_ — and something _always_ happened on the train ride.

Feeling the by now familiar rush of adrenaline Harry barely managed to suppress a smile.

Some things never changed.

 

_dream away life's brightest shade_

 

Slowly blinking his eyes open—because Gryffindor might not have been the Sorting Hat's first choice, but it sure had been the second one—Harry found himself in the same small compartment he remembered falling asleep in, which he counted as a good sign.

The older male sitting across from him on the other hand probably wasn't.

Harry made no move to reach for his wand. In fact, he made no move at all and instead took the time to survey his unexpected companion. On the off-chance that the guy hadn't noticed his return to the land of the fully conscious Harry sure as hell wasn't going to tip him off before he had a better idea of what was going on.

The male was reading a thick book the likes of which Hermione would give her left hand for— _The Most Common Rune Usage in Northern Europe During the First Century C.E. and their Evolvement Through the Middle Ages_ —and seemed to completely ignore the presence of the Gryffindor sharing the small compartment with him.

He was obviously intelligent and fairly interested in Ancient Runes, because Harry knew the assigned books for that course—you couldn't be friends with Hermione and _not_ know that list by heart—and this edition definitely wasn't on it.

The male looked older, clearly a seventh year, and vaguely familiar, but Harry couldn't remember ever sharing a class with him. And he _would_ remember, there was no doubt about that. After all the guy's green tie gave his house affliction away quite clearly and although Harry wasn't the most dedicated student he _always_ payed attention to the Slytherins in his year. It was the only way to survive potion lessons with Snape.

No, Harry knew all the Slytherins in his year. He might pay the most attention to Draco Malfoy and his two bodyguards, but the less obtuse members of the house of snakes, like Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode, didn't escape his notice. He knew them, knew what to watch out for, knew their faces when they were trying to pull something and their gestures when they weren't.

But this young man was a virtual stranger. He was tall but not burly, his features even and pleasant to look at but not outstanding enough to draw much attention. To be honest _nothing_ about the male's appearance drew any form of attention. If the guy hadn't been in his compartment, while he was sleeping no less, Harry wouldn't have given him a second glance.

It was this simple truth that made Harry suspicious, more so even than the curious tension that filled the air of the small room. Blending into the background was a very useful skill and the most ordinary looking people often were the most dangerous ones.

Besides with Harry's track record this guy would probably reveal himself as the most deadly member of a secret sect of dark magic worshippers, determined to prove their worth to Voldemort by assassinating him or some such nonsense. It would be just his luck.

The male—and by now Harry was absolutely certain he had seen him around before, he just couldn't seem to remember the guy's name—marked his current page, he was almost half-way through, and tilted his head to meet Harry's assessing eyes.

"Done playing Sleeping Beauty, Potter?" The words were slow and mocking, but Harry barely paid them any mind.

He didn't have time for silly verbal sparring matches, as entertaining as they might be, he was too busy panicking.

Harry knew people. He read them the way Hermione studied a 'light' good-night lecture, dissected them the way Ron foresaw five different moves his opponent hadn't yet realised he might need. And Harry knew with the certainty that came with years of being hunted down, years of being watched and judged and found lacking, years of being thrown into the way of enemies with more experience than he could dream to reach, that this thin male with the short hair and the narrow face was dangerous.

Harry didn't doubt it for a second.

It doesn't mean anything though, he told himself. Ron and Hermione were dangerous too, and so was he for that matter.

If he had been anyone else he might have even believed it. But he was Harry Potter and there was no room for coincidence when he was involved.

"I feel very much refreshed now, thank you for asking," Harry finally replied when he was sure his voice wouldn't betray his nerves.

This was ridiculous, really. It was just a Slytherin for Merlin's sake! He dealt with those all year round and usually the odds were a lot less even. Harry didn't relax though. Because that voice in the back of his head sounded suspiciously like Hermione, calm and rational, and Harry loved his friend with all his heart, but he had also been attacked by a Dementor and survived the killing curse. Two things that were so improbable most mathematicians wouldn't bother calculating the probabilities in the first place.

Besides there was something about this particular Slytherin, something _off_. It made Harry wish he had his best friends by his side, watching his back. It was always easier to stay calm when someone else did the panicking—and besides Ron would probably figure out everything there was to know about this guy before Hermione had finished berating him for getting himself into trouble again. He was creepy like that. And damn useful.

His friends weren't here though. He would have to handle this on his own.

 

_dream away life's brightest shade_

 

Alright, Harry thought as his eyes tracked the way the unknown Slytherin's left eyebrow slowly rose in response to his answer. He could do this.

Really.

The male's identity was unknown, but he wasn't completely unfamiliar. Harry had seen him before, but never really payed any attention to him. That meant the Slytherin had never directly attacked him or revealed himself as the perpetuator of such an attack in the aftermath—Hermione had a detailed list on those people and though it happened to be depressingly long Harry knew that list as well as he knew the small cupboard under the stairs in Privet Drive Number 4.

The guy looked to be older than he was. He wasn't in their year, but he couldn't be a sixth year either, even if he had failed his OWLs for some reason. That made this easier, there were few older students Harry had come into contact with and even less of them were Slytherins. In fact, when you discounted being hunted down by Umbridge's little supervision army, that only left Hogsmeade as a point of potential accidental sightings or—

_Tall. Neither bulky nor slender. Short, dark hair and sharp features in a narrow face. Callous hands. Carefully tailored robes in the highest quality._

Of bloody course they were. Because there was nothing extra-ordinary about this young man, nothing that would separate him from _every other student_ in his Merlin damned house. The house that was famous for his wealthy members—or spoiled pureblood brats, as Ron liked to call them.

 _Spoiled_.

Harry blinked.

Sweet Merlin and Morgana, he was a bloody _moron_! For all his insistences on not being stupid he sure did everything in his power to prove people's low expectations of him right! Was he really that obvious or did he just rely on Hermione and occasionally Ron too much to do the mental work for him?

Spoiled children didn't have calloused hands, especially not the heirs of prestigious pureblood families and those seeking to become a part of their exclusive circle. The most reasonable explanation would be a common, widely accepted activity that could cause these kinds of calluses.

Something like Quidditch. Because in the Wizarding World _everything_ came back to Quidditch. A couple of reporters had even declared the Quidditch world coup three years ago the beginning of the second war against Voldemort—not that they acknowledged that it was an actual war yet, mind you—because it had been the first time since his fall in 1981 that his followers had operated out in the open under his mark again.

It was like a switch in his mind had been flipped because suddenly Harry knew from where he recognised his unexpected companion: the Slytherin Quidditch team. And that realisation was the metaphorical spark that lit up the fire.

The guy's name was Adrian Pucey, sole heir of the minor house of Pucey. He was the only member of the team that had never committed a foul, as far as Harry could remember, and maybe that was the reason he was known for being almost approachable. Of course compared to people like Slytherin's old team captain Marcus Flint a deranged mountain troll would appear _approachable_ and Harry was one of the few living people who could back that statement up with experience.

But that wasn't the point. The point was now Harry had at least some idea of whom he was facing off against. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

And also high time to continue their conversation, the silence had been lingering for an embarrassing amount of time by now. The mere fact that Pucey hadn't commented on it so far was a bad sign, as far as Harry was concerned. At least with taunts and insults he knew how to react. His frequent encounters with Malfoy and his entourage were great practice in that regard.

Harry opened his mouth to continue—even though he didn't have a clue exactly what he was supposed to say—, but he didn't get the chance because in that moment Pucey decided to break the heavy silence.

"You are… not reacting like I expected you to," the Slytherin noted.

It wasn't a question, not really, more like an off-handed comment that reminded Harry more of Hermione than he would have liked. Maybe that was the reason why he answered it reflexively.

"You aren't cursing me like I expected," Harry shot back, raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

Pucey tilted his head to the left like a curious cat—except there was nothing curious about his expression. His face was drawn into a blank mask that showed no feelings at all, be they positive or negative.

"You have not answered the question," he said. Once again his words were nothing but a statement, devoid of any emotional inflection that should have been there. And there really should have been one. Something like frustration, interest, smugness, mocking or maybe just simple derision. Anything at all that would have added another layer of expression to his words, something beyond their literal meaning.

But there wasn't.

"You haven't asked a question," Harry retorted, making sure to convey through his body language alone how unimpressed he was with this guy's not-quite-interrogation.

Pucey watched him for a long moment. "Indeed. But hypothetically speaking, if I asked you a question would you answer it?"

"Hypothetically speaking, yes," Harry agreed easily.

Perhaps too easily, considering he was about to enter a word game with an older Slytherin, but then Harry always relished in a challenge. Besides what better way to discover what Pucey wanted than play by his rules for as long as it benefited him?

"Your word?" Pucey demanded.

Harry didn't hesitate.

"Gryffindor's honour."

"I was not aware that Gryffindors cared about honour."

Harry almost smiled at the familiar tone of superiority, although it lacked some of its usual sharpness.

"I wasn't aware that your sources were so terribly uninformed."

Pucey did't even blink.

"Point taken."

Harry carded his fingers through his wild hair, a deceptively unimportant gesture to check whether or not his wand holster was still exactly where it should be. Hermione had enchanted it for him so that nobody should be able to take it without his unforced permission, but they had been in the magical world for a long time now. And one of the lessons they had learned was that every enchantment could be broken.

It was a reflexive motion because even though Pucey had made no move to threaten him, Harry could feel the rising tension with every word they spoke, with every step they took in this verbal dance of evasion and elusion.

"Why are you here, Potter?" Pucey finally asked. It was the first real question he had asked and Harry couldn't decide if he was tired of the games or if it was just a distraction, an irrelevant question he didn't care about, to get them sidetracked and possibly lower his guard.

"Because I was born," Harry replied simply.

"That's not a good answer."

"Then maybe you should have asked a better question." Harry couldn't keep the tart remark from slipping out, ignoring the warning voice in the back of his head that was telling him to stop. _Now_.

Because when faced with Pucey's unmoving presence, he couldn't help but think that showing any kind of emotion would eventually turn into a weakness he wasn't aware he'd given away. That maybe Pucey could read something into the heat of his response he wasn't supposed to find out, no matter how far-stretched that sounded.

Maybe he hadn't escaped Ron's paranoia as unscratched as he liked to think. And those cool eyes watching his every move did nothing to calm his fears.

There was no change in Pucey's facial expression, nothing that would have given Harry a clue about his true thoughts on their little conversation, but for some reason he got the sense that he had just passed some kind of test.

Harry couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not.

 

_dream away life's brightest shade_

 

"Why are you here?" Harry finally asked.

What he really wanted to know was why the Slytherin hadn't attacked him yet, if he wanted to lure him into a false sense of safety or if he was trying to secure an allegiance 'just in case'. Sadly he doubted that he would get a straight answer to any of these questions. It was too bad that they didn't have the resources nor the skills to simply brew one giant load of Veritasserum and find out once and for all who stood on which side.

But no, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?

"I have not promised you any answers, Potter."

"True. But why?"

"Because I have no desire to answer your silly questions."

"That wasn't what I meant."

"I know."

For a long moment Harry simply stared at the older male who's face had remained as expressionless through their exchange as it had been before. Not even a satisfied smirk or an obtuse sneer. Absentmindedly Harry wondered if someone—aka Voldemort—had reanimated an old greek statue and was now trying to smuggle it into Hogwarts under the pretence of a student. But that would be too inane for even Voldemort to consider, right?

"Alright then," he sighed in resignation. He had played enough of these games with Ron to know better than to expect a straight answer. "As long as we're on the same page."

"I suppose we are," Pucey deadpanned—and Harry honestly wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

The strange thing about Pucey was that he literally deadpanned. It wasn't just an expression and it definitely wasn't an exaggeration.

At first Harry hadn't been sure what it was about this Slytherin specifically that had sent his inner alarm bells ringing. It wasn't that he'd entered this compartment while Harry had been sleeping, any determined fourth year and above would have managed that. It wasn't the colour of his robes either, if anything that was a cause for wariness but not outright fear.

No, there was something _off_ about Adrian Pucey personally and with every word they exchanged Harry became more conscious of what exactly it was that unsettled him so much.

It was his emotions. Or rather his _complete_ lack thereof.

Not every person was like Harry, known to wear his heart on his sleeve—though, to be fair, he'd gotten a lot better at hiding what he was truly thinking over time. But the point was, people weren't always upfront about their thoughts and motivations. Sometimes they even deliberately deceived the world around them.

They did it unconsciously or consciously, out of fear and out of satisfaction, to prove something and to hide something, to help and to mislead. They wore masks and they did it for different reasons, although they might as well all be the same in the end. It didn't truly matter.

Harry had seen it when Draco Malfoy covered up his plot to ruin Ron's and Seamus' potion again. He'd seen it when Remus had tried to hide his pain at having lost his last remaining school friend, the last one that mattered anyways. He'd seen it on Hermione when she lied to the professors back in their first year, on the faces of the Weasley twins twice a day at the least. He saw it in Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Slytherins and Gryffindors alike.

All of them were capable of controlling their emotions, just like all of them were capable of losing said control. Some might have higher limits than others, but the principle remained the same. They could lie, they could manipulate and they could do it for a thousand honourable and even more very much not honourable reasons.

But at the end of the day, those were just masks. They were a means of deception. An illusion. _And illusions never last_.

People wore masks, but that didn't mean they didn't have emotions. It just meant they knew how to use them, how to hide them and in some rarer cases how to manipulate themselves in their favour. But they still laughed, they still smirked, they still cried, they still raged, they still _felt_.

Adrian Pucey however showed no signs of any of these things.

His face remained expressionless, even in this highly unusual situation where he had a conversation of the idolised Gryffindor and figurehead of Voldemort's strongest opposition, he didn't show any reaction, any emotional response. It was like his face was a blank canvas, a sketch that had never been filled with colour.

And when Harry met those dark eyes, he couldn't see anything in their depths. No life. No emotion. _Nothing at all._

Those eyes were dead and in that moment Harry honestly wasn't sure if there was anything left in this man that could revive them.

He swallowed hard.

"I need to go now," Harry continued, unable to successfully keep the sudden reservation out of his voice. "My friends will be worried."

He stood, barely holding on to his determination to remain calm. He couldn't flee, couldn't run, but in this moment there was nothing Harry wanted to do more than that. No matter how detailed Hermione's voice in the back of his head explained to him what a terrible idea that would be.

Just looking at Pucey right now meant facing what this particular Slytherin was—what he _wasn't_ —and it hurt. It hurt so fucking much, because when Harry stood there was a flash in those dark eyes, gone so quickly he almost missed it, and.

Harry saw calculated numbers in those eyes.

_He saw Ron's smile._

Then compartment door slammed shut behind him and in a simpler world that would would have been the end of it.

 

_dream away life's brightest shade_

 

"Hey guys," Harry mumbled hesitantly as he stepped into his friends compartment near the middle of the train.

He had a good reason to be wary. Ron and Hermione rarely cut themselves off so clearly from everyone else. They knew that Harry didn't like it when the two of them locked themselves up somewhere and got lost in that own little world of theirs because that meant that nobody was around to pull them back to reality when they lost themselves. Besides a little human interaction couldn't hurt.

But today the two had commandeered their usual compartment, their spells making it impossible to enter for everyone bar Harry himself. That was a bad sign.

So where the pitying glances Neville, Dean, Seamus and even _Luna_ shot him through the opposite door. Yes, Harry was definitely worried.

"Are you still angry?"

It was a stupid question, really, but Harry couldn't help himself.

"Anger is an inefficient emotion that wastes time and energy," Hermione hissed from where she was stalking the small aisle between the seats up and down at a dizzying pace.

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

His dry comment caused Hermione to let out a wordless snarl and with a flick of her wand a ward flared to life around her, cutting her off from the rest of the world—from _them_. It caused an uncomfortably tightening sensation to grow in the pit of Harry's stomach.

"You're an idiot," Ron commented just as drily from where he had stretched himself out across the two seats.

"Really? _You_ want to tell me how to deal with people?" He regretted the biting words before the last syllable had fully left his lips, but by then it was far too late.

Ron flinched.

"I'm sorry," Harry immediately said and he meant it. Then, after taking a deep, calming breath, he continued. "I'm sorry, Ron. I shouldn't have said that. I'm just-"

"You're stressed," his best friend interrupted him. He didn't move from his sprawled out position, didn't even open his eyes. "You haven't been sleeping for more than three hours and twenty-seven minutes straight in the last sixteen days. You haven't eaten more than two meals a day, each ration less than the one before. On average you've had eight point four arguments per day with people you are intimately familiar with and who's opinion you care about. You're tense, exhausted and by my most recent estimation seventy hours and fifteen minutes away from a nervous breakdown."

Here Ron let out a deep sigh that sounded about as tired as Harry felt. "You're on the edge right now, Harry. It's causing you to react irrationally and lash out at the people around you. I know better than to take your words to heart."

Harry closed his eyes, uncertain how to react to these simple words that meant more to him than his friends could ever hope to understand.

"Thank you, Ron," he whispered, the words so raw they were almost physically painful to say, but still soothing all the same.

"You're welcome." And then, because Ron always destroyed moments like these: "'Mione might need a little more time though."

"Don't call me by that ridiculous name of yours, Weasley!" Hermione's voice cut through the tension like a cracking whip through molten butter, leaving a spray of splatters in her wake.

Maybe it should have surprised them that the girl had obviously been listening to every word they said, but really, this was Hermione they were talking about. They had known each other for far too long to be surprised by such an obvious manoeuvre.

"Well, you shouldn't eavesdrop on other people's conversations if you don't want to hear what they've got to say, _Granger_."

"The term eavesdropping implies that neither subject of the conversation in question is aware of the culprits presence and ability to listen to their words. Neither of which applies to this situation, meaning that-"

Harry smiled in amusement at his friends' antics, well-used to their pointless arguments that usually involved a lot of fact sprouting, talking over each other and eventually—read: when Hermione lost her patience—some very much not so legal curses. He usually tuned them out and raised the strongest shield charm he knew the second his best friends got their second names involved. Just in case.

But for the moment he simply observed his beloved friends fight. It was their way of calming their nerves as much as it was his way of hiding away when things got too much to bear. They all had their own ways of coping with the pressure on them and he couldn't fault them for their methods as much as they couldn't keep him from following his own.

And no matter what they were currently throwing at each other's heads, the mere fact that Ron and Hermione were arguing, in front of him no less, meant that they would make it through this. Together. Like they always did.

 

_dream away life's brightest shade_

 

"You were two hours and thirteen minutes later than expected," Hermione stated matter-of-factly half an hour later.

She didn't seven lift her eyes from where she was simultaneously skimming over the worn-down pages of _Hogwarts: A History_ and studying a very complicated looking table of what appeared to be arithmetic calculation formulas. Still, this was the first time she was addressing Harry directly.

It was a start. He hoped.

"I got held up," Harry muttered, distracted by the result of his investigation spell on the compartment door.

"Twelve wards?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Thirteen," Ron replied from where he was once again sprawled out across two seats, his forearm covering his face and protecting his eyes from the bright sunlight. It was a sharp reminder that Harry hadn't been the only one suffering from sleep-deprivation during the last few days.

Harry whistled at the sheer number of different layers, never mind the concentration it took to weave them together into the complicated but stable network that presented itself to him. His friends' abilities never failed to amaze him.

"Impressive. But is it really necessary?"

"Little buggers're getting more persistent ev'ry year." Ron shrugged. "'Sides there was a thirty-three per cent chance of Riddle issuing an attack on the train. We wanted to be prepared."

That none of these wards would do much more than give them the time to raise their wands was left unsaid, but clearly heard by everyone present.

"Only thirty-three?" Harry flopped down on the empty seat across the redhead's feet, while Hermione continued pacing the small aisle up and down, switching her intense stare back and forth between her books and quietly muttering something indiscernible under her breath. He didn't doubt that she was aware of every word they said though.

Hermione always was.

"The train is a moving target which makes it impossible to reach by apparation, the floo network and Portkeys, the three magical standard means of travel. That only leaves an attack at King's Cross, infiltrating the train and a planned ambush on the way to Hogwarts, most likely in an open area, far away from any settlement," Ron answered dutifully.

"The first didn't happen. The most likely means to achieve the second one would be Polyjuice, which wouldn't just be an inefficient waste of resources but would have also worn off by now. And the last would only be successful if they planned a violent frontal attack, which would have let to at least the first four wagons being completely destroyed. Taking into account that not only the children of potential allies and sympathisers but also the heirs of his own followers might become collateral damage and that the children as a whole are the least likely to pose a serious threat to his regime, that makes the train an even less attractive target. And finally the children of his enemies would be more useful alive than dead. Alive they are potential hostages, dead their parents may decide to take matters in their own hands and avenge them. So yes, Harry, I'm _quite_ confident in my calculations."

Harry grinned at the dry undertone in his friend's last words. Ron was _always_ confident in his calculations and he did not appreciate having his skills questioned.

"We went over the numbers twice before Harry," Hermione stated and turned a page in _Hogwarts: A History_. "It's unusual for you to repeat a conversation, unless the topic involves an emotional attachment of sorts."

Harry barely managed to suppress an annoyed groan. Of course Hermione would notice. Merlin, it was a wonder Ron hadn't realised it the second he set a foot into their compartment—but then, maybe not so much. Ron might be brilliant in his own way, but unlike Hermione he couldn't be bothered to constantly use his skills. Which was a small mercy, really. Otherwise Harry wouldn't get away with _anything_.

"I'm fine, Hermione," he muttered petulantly, already knowing how this was going to end. He wasn't wrong.

"Mhm," Hermione hummed non-committally. "Ron?"

The redhead immediately pushed his body into a sitting position and surveyed Harry with critical, blue eyes. It was a testimony to how long they had been the best of friends that Harry didn't even twitch at the intense inspection.

"You've called Hermione by her full name instead of the shortened variations you usually prefer. You also haven't crossed your arms in front of your chest like you usually do because you know that it can be interpreted as a sign of defensiveness. Both are atypical behaviour patterns that indicate that you're not comfortable expressing your current emotional state in our presence. Subconsciously you're repressing your feelings in an effort to distance yourself from your perceived weakness, which causes you to hyper-compensation their lack with a more rational mindset than is common for you."

"Or, to keep it short and efficient: you're lying," Hermione concluded and finally snapped her edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ shut. The arithmetic calculations remained in her right hand though.

"So," Ron drawled with a smug smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on Malfoy's face—not that Harry would ever tell his friend that, he did have some sense of self-preservation, thank you very much. "You wanna 'fess up or shall I make a couple of educated guesses and figure it out from there?"

Harry rolled his eyes. Sometimes having two brilliant best friends wasn't all it was made out to be.

"I locked myself in a compartment, had a long overdue nap and finally a nice conversation with a Slytherin student that involved neither curses nor insults. Happy?" he snapped.

Ron and Hermione stared. At him. In silent disbelief.

Clearly, they were anything but happy.

 

_dream away life's brightest shade_

 

Apparently the probability of Harry having a decent—if somewhat pointless—conversation with _any_ Slytherin was little more than thirteen per cent. Couple that with the fact that it was someone above fifth year and, well. The result wasn't favourable, mathematically speaking. Or so Ron said.

Sometimes Harry really hated his best friend's mind.

"Guys, you really need to stop freak yourself out over this. For Merlin's sake, we were _just_ talking!" he exclaimed exasperatedly.

"Actually, the probability of it being just a talk is nothing more than-"

"I _know_ , Ron."

"-fourth notable inconsistency, each of them being less likely to occur than the last. In combination-"

"Hermione, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"-can't believe we haven't noticed that before-"

"-with a three point seven-five-"

" **Shut up!** "

The silence that followed Harry's scream was deafening. Two pairs of fast blinking eyes stared at him in shock. But that was alright. That was okay. As long as that creepy glaze he'd seen in them just seconds before was gone again, Harry could live with everything.

Taking another deep breath, he gestured for his friends to sit down.

"Alright, guys, we're gonna do this again and this time in slow motion, so that mere mortals like myself can follow you as well. I want to know what's got you so out of it, I want to know what about one little talk has lowered our survival chances for this year from fifty-six to forty-one percent and I want you to tell me everything you know about Adrian Pucey. Hermione, you're up first."

"To answer your first question, Adrian Pucey is an unknown variable," the brown-haired girl answered immediately. "He has not been subjected to special scrutiny like other members of his house and has not been included in any of our plans and calculations as anything more than the usual risk factor we've given every human being in the castle. It means our data regarding him is limited and may even be faulty or incomplete, otherwise we would have predicted his approach as a distinct possibility, which we didn't."

Harry nodded slowly. This at least he could understand. He might not be like Hermione and Ron in many things, might not even _think_ the way they did, but he had spent the last six years by their side. Both of them were intelligent, unusually so, and if there was one thing that could make them lose their composure it was not knowing something. They were very much alike in that way, perhaps more so than was good for any them.

"Alright, calm down. Our data may not be perfect, but now we know about the weakness and we'll do something about it. There's no reason to talk yourself into a panic. We'll find out everything we missed the first time and then we recalculate _everything_. Just stay calm, okay?" He stared at Hermione beseechingly until he was sure she wouldn't immediately drift off in that complex world inside her head again.

She nodded, which would have to be enough for now.

"Ron, explain your new estimate of our survival chances."

"My initial calculations were based on our analysis of Riddle's usual tactics, all of which involved the expected key players and were highly predictable," Ron answered just as quickly. His face was grim. "Pucey's sudden appearance in the game speaks of a possibility we've been neglecting on the grounds of Riddle's obsessive and irrational personality. If he's upped his game and involves unknown factors our overall chances of success sink rapidly while Voldemort's personal threat level and the risk factor of every human being inside the castle almost doubles."

Of course it would. It wasn't like their chances hadn't been bad enough to begin with. Harry sighed.

"And Pucey?"

"Slytherin, seventh year student, was two years above us. Tall, fairly handsome, no known relationships, no well-known rumours. Must have repeated two years. No known involvement in any fight big enough to draw attention to himself." Hermione.

"Mediocre Quidditch player, dropped out of the team last year. Has never been involved in a foul that I can remember. Doesn't have much to do with our usual crowd." Ron.

"Right." Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "The chances of my little run-in with him being a coincidence?"

"Less than seven per cent."

"Damn it."

Harry glanced outside the window, where the sky was already darkening.

"We'll arrive in Hogsmeade in less than an hour," he stated, ignoring Ron's muttered "Thirty-eight minutes and ten seconds actually" with practiced ease. "Here's what we're gonna do: Hermione, compile a list of any information you can think of that we're currently lacking. We can't find what we don't know we're looking for. Start with Pucey and then go from there. We need it in twenty minutes, so do it now!"

"Understood, Harry." The girl nodded sharply, then promptly turned on her heels and stalked out of the compartment.

Harry didn't bother stopping her. Hermione was nothing if not efficient and if what she needed was somewhere else he wouldn't waste her time explaining her every step for him. They would never get anywhere otherwise.

"Twenty minutes?" Ron raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

Harry grinned weakly. "I might not be a math whiz, Ron, but even I know that we won't be able to talk freely once we're inside Hogwarts. We need to get this done before we reach Hogsmeade and spread the words among the others, because in thirty-eight minutes the walls will have _literal_ eyes and ears—and we won't know who'll be sitting at the other end."

"Sometimes I swear you're just like us," Ron shook his head, a strange expression on his face that Harry couldn't identify. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go over our old plans. We don't know when we'll get the missing information, so I need you to figure out which of our plans and contingencies are affected the most by this issue. Do what you do best, Ron, and calculate the damage."

"Got it, boss," Ron mock-saluted and reached and one of the quills Hermione had left lying on her seat.

"Oh, and Ron?" Harry stared at the utensils contemplatively. He shouldn't ask, he _really_ shouldn't. "How high is the probability that Hermione left the compartment because she wanted to get away from me?"

"About eighty-six per cent, give or take," Ron replied immediately, then paused. "Harry… You need to go talk to her. She has the same emotions as everyone else, even if she isn't always aware of them. Whatever it is that's going on between the two of you, it's affecting you both. It's affecting _us_. You need to work it out. _Before_ we reach Hogwarts."

"I will."

"See that you do."

Harry grimaced at the thought. He didn't know what exactly the problem was, but he had a fairly good idea and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Still, Ron was right. There was no use avoiding this any longer. In less than an hour they would reach Hogwarts. They would enter their home and with it, they would enter the war.

There would be no time then to deal with emotions Hermione denied she even had and if Ron's numbers were half-way accurate they really couldn't afford yet another weakness for their enemies to exploit.

He needed to find Hermione, talk things through with her and then get the others and inform them of the change of plans. He needed to focus now, because they were about to enter a game they couldn't afford to lose.

"And Harry?" Ron's voice piped up behind him again, just as he'd reached for the door handle.

Involuntary Harry's shoulders sagged.

"Yes, Ron?" he asked tiredly, but didn't turn around.

"There's a sixty-one point eight per cent chance that Pucey approached you purposefully to catch your attention. If this was his first move, you _can't_ allow him to get into your head. Do you understand?"

Harry's fingers clenched tightly around the door handle.

"Because once he's made it inside, he may not win, but he can't lose anymore either," he repeated the words that had become a silent mantra between the three of them ever since the devastating fall-out of the end of their fifth year. "I remember."

"Good."

Ron didn't say anything after that and neither did Harry.

He didn't mention the flash of dead eyes before his inner eye, didn't mention that fracture of a moment when he'd seen something _else_ in them.

He didn't mention that Adrian Pucey was no longer a variable either. He had become a problem.

Because Harry Potter, for all his various strengths and weaknesses, had never been able to leave a question unanswered for long. He had never been able to _let it go_. It was, perhaps, his most dangerous fault—and his most defining one.

 


	3. Welcomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which promises aren't made until they are, Luna totally ships Searry and there's either something wrong with the Slytherins or with Harry. Also they finally make it to Hogwarts. Home, sweet home, everybody!

* * *

_We were both, the witnesses of the second war's beginning and its first victims._

—Ginny Weasley

* * *

 

Harry wasn't happy. He had spent the majority of the train ride so far avoiding his fellow students—Ron, Hermione and Pucey being a notable exception—and he had done it for a very good reason: after his stressful holidays, he simply wasn't up for it. He wasn't in the mood to socialise and ask questions and pay attention and smile. _Especially_ not smile.

Naturally Hermione had chosen a compartment with five of their other friends in it to hide from him. Friends he would be expected to greet and talk with. So, no, Harry wasn't happy. He wasn't surprised, but he definitely wasn't happy.

Sending a silent prayer to whomever was willing to listen up there, Harry took the last few steps towards the compartment of doom—one that was holding more people than should have been possible, but that's what an enlargement charm was for. Briefly he wondered whether Hermione had been the one to use spell the small room and invite even more students inside, just to spite him.

But no, Hermione wasn't spiteful. Not because she wasn't capable of it, she could be as cruel as any other young woman with a sharp mind if she so desired. She simply deemed such actions beneath her, because. They weren't _efficient_.

As Harry approached the compartment that he knew with absolute certainty held Hermione—those nifty tracking charms never got old—he watched the other occupants through the glass window. They hadn't even thought to ward the door to ensure they wouldn't be watched. He could observe their interactions from where he stood, could even read their lips should he choose to do so. And as convenient as that would be, Harry doubted he was the only one with such a skill.

Now, if the occupants of said compartment had been first or second years he wouldn't have held it against them. Actually he would have let most third, fourth and fifth year get away with it too, even if it was incredibly stupid on their part. But they weren't. The group was a strange mixture of houses and years, something that would immediately draw the attention of other, more observant by-passers. And their age didn't matter to Harry because out of the six people he recognised in that compartment every single one should know better than to be so damn careless. _He_ had taught them better.

Or at least that was what he'd thought. Apparently he'd overestimated their abilities. And that wouldn't do. No, that wouldn't do at all. Naivety, light laughter and an unconscious trust in their fellow students morals were all well and good—only they couldn't afford it. Not in times like these, where a single mistake could lead to the death of hundreds.

But as Harry approached the compartment, he didn't see wariness and he didn't see worry. Instead he saw teasing comments and gentle touches that spoke of familiarity and ease. He saw jokes they'd all heard a hundred times before and exchanged stories of their holidays and humorous excitement humming underneath their skin. He saw _innocence_ and Harry hated it with a passion he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since the Ministry two years ago, not since he'd lost the last reminder of the life he could have led.

He hated that the lesson he'd learned that night had been one that could not be passed on, one that had to be _experienced_ —one that these students, his friends, had yet to learn. And they _would_ learn it, just like they would all have to choose a side eventually.

Voldemort's power was growing steadily. With his return from certain death his influence was impossible to stop, because nobody could deny his power. And in the face of such a dangerous foe the Order had grown harder, more capable and more determined with every loss they faced. The front lines were being drawn even now and Harry knew, with a deep understanding he'd gained during his weeks in Grimmauld Place, that this war, when it was all said and done, wouldn't leave room for ignorance—or neutrality.

He swallowed.

Most of the time it was easy to talk about the war. Usually he had Ron by his side, muttering about the likelihood of one outcome over another and Hermione ranting about the rules and limits of magic even as she broke them all. It was easy because his friends were brilliant and wonderful and he would have never made it as far as he did without them, but. They weren't normal.

They were— _had been_ —innocent in their own ways, but even when they had been eleven year old children Ron had calculated the best chances to make it to the Philosopher's stone in time and ensured his friends' success at the cost his own life. And Hermione had broken every rule she preached, every rule she _believed_ in with all her being when she'd cast logic aside and followed him through the flames.

Ron and Hermione were brilliant, they were flawed, but above all else they were _exceptional_. And despite the doubts he'd had, despite the insecurity and constant worry about their lives, he'd never once felt like he'd ruined them.

Now, staring through the small window into a compartment filled with an air of carefree happiness he was about to destroy, Harry realised with stark clarity that he couldn't say the same about his other friends.

Hannah, Susan and Zacharias were Hufflepuffs in his year who had grown close to him during their fifth year under Umbridge—terror had a way of unifying the most curious people, he'd learned that year. But in some ways they were still recent additions to his group of friends, recent because they hadn't fought _Quirrel_ or _Tom Riddle_ or _Sirius Black_ or _Voldemort_ with him, not even in spirit. They hadn't been there during those life-changing events and sometimes it still showed.

Then there was Dennis Creevey, fifth year Gryffindor, Colin's younger brother with a boisterous, go-lucky attitude that granted on everyone's nerves. Now him Harry wasn't surprised to see acting so carelessly. It wasn't that Dennis couldn't be trusted, it was more that he didn't really think. And yet, somehow, always managed to produce the results he was supposed to. Harry had long ago decided that he really didn't want to know exactly how that boy's luck worked—or his mind for that matter. But he'd still have to talk about the necessity of security charms with him. Again.

And finally there they were, Ginny Weasley and Hermione, the one he'd been looking for and the one he didn't need to, heads stuck together as the younger girl whispered something so fast, Harry couldn't for the life of him decipher the words—so maybe at least one of them had learned something from him after all.

Still.

Should he really do it? Storm into that compartment and berate them for, essentially, being teenagers? Demand an explanation they didn't owe him in the first place? Ruin their fun, like he always did?

The truth was, they deserved this and he had no right to dictate how they should or should not act.

 _The truth was, he_ envied _them and he hesitated only because he feared it was jealousy and not concern that clouded his judgement_.

His hand was already reaching for the door knob when Harry paused. He could give them this. These last few hours of carefree joy. He could find a way to talk to Hermione later on, in the Room of Requirement maybe, or even the Chamber if push came to shove. He could lecture the others for their idiocy during the ride from Hogsmeade to the castle—'the others' because he knew Hermione was aware of his approach, had felt one of her wards the second he left Ron in their compartment and probably tripped a dozen other ones on his way here.

But she hadn't alerted the others of his presence, for whatever reason. And Hermione always had a reason.

No, he could still go back, still allow the illusion to continue, just for a little while, because really, what harm would it do? He could still-

Ginny's head snapped around suddenly—because she's always been more in tune with him than the others, has always known a little more, understood a little better, smiled a little sadder, because she was the _First_ —and the moment was broken before he had the chance to pretend that there actually was a choice.

_cross off the colours_

"Harry."

Ginny was the first to greet him—Hermione still being to busy to determinedly ignore his existence—and her gentle reception caused the other four students to jump in surprise. It was almost amusing, to read the panic in their expressions as they fumbled for their wands—ridiculous really, he only cursed them _once or twice_ for not paying attention to him—, but he didn't allow himself to smile. There was no reason to make them think they were getting off the hook so early on.

"Ginny," he replied warmly, then nodded at the others in cold acknowledgment.

Zacharias winced.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you like this, but I'd like to speak to Hermione now, if that's possible," he said, not paying the guilty looks the others were shooting him any mind. His words were phrased as a request but it wasn't one and they all knew it.

"Of course!" Hannah exclaimed, scrambling to her feet as fast as she could. Her best friend hastily followed her example. "We'll just leave you two to it, then!"

None of them showed any sign of indignation at being pretty much thrown out of their own compartment. If anything they seemed relieved to get away.

Which wouldn't do at all.

"I appreciate it," he assured them in the most polite tone of voice he could muster. "In fact, there's an empty compartment just down the hallway. I'll stop by as soon as Hermione and I are finished so we can get caught up. It's been, what, three months since we've last had the chance to talk _properly_?"

The words themselves were deceptively light, but judging by the pale faces and shaky smiles they gained in response, Harry was confident that none of them had forgotten their last _talk_. He couldn't say he blamed them. It had happened just days after the fiasco that ended with Dumbledore's death and Harry hadn't exactly been stable at the time. Too much grief, too much uncertainty, too much pressure, too much _fear_. It was a condition he had no plans to fall back into.

The five students left in a hurry and only Ginny hesitated for a moment, lingering near the doorway in a twisted mimicry of Harry's previous internal struggle. They had always been a bit too alike that way.

"You're back," she said in the end, the words soft and gentle, as though not to startle him.

Harry blinked and looked at her, really _looked_ at her this time. The girl with the fiery hair and the shattered eyes. "I never left, Gin," he whispered, suddenly all too aware of Hermione's looming presence in the background and the time that was running out on him.

He didn't have time for this, but he couldn't push her away with a simple 'later' either. This was _Ginny_ , and above all else Ginny was special. And in the end, as always, she made the choice for him.

She smiled, honest and bright and _shattered_. "Didn't you?" she asked and it wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even a question.

But there was a shadow of the girl Harry had found in the Chamber of Secrets, lifeless and broken, in those words. A shadow of warm hugs and shallow reassurances and _You're my world_ and _I wish it would be enough_.

Ginny's smile dimmed before he had the chance to react and when she shook her head the shadow retreated, not gone exactly, but hidden beyond his reach. "I'll be with Dean and the others," she said flippantly over her shoulder and strode out of the door without looking back again.

At least Harry didn't catch her doing it—but then Ginny had always been special.

_cross off the colours_

With a heavy sigh Harry fell into Zacharias' previous seat and crossed his ankles in front of him. Now wasn't the time to contemplate the fragile mess that was his and Ginny's relationship, not when he had to deal with an even less stable mess in the form of his friendship with Hermione.

Harry usually wasn't one to buy much into gender-specific stereotypes, but what were the odds that the relationships with the two females he valued the most among his circle of friends were also the most complicated?

Ron would probably calculate them for him if he asked, but to be honest Harry suspected he was better off not knowing.

Instead he tilted his head to the side and watched his best friend as she stared at a spot on the wall straight over his head. It was one of the reasons Hermione had struggled to connect with her classmates in the beginning. She had a tendency of drifting off in the middle of a conversation, of staring straight ahead at absolutely nothing for hours. And when she tried to reach out to others, used to being made fun off for her 'spacey' nature, she stumbled, was too bossy and certain in her own knowledge.

But that had been when they were eleven and now, almost six years later Hermione hadn't just learned how to temper her corrections and turn them into helpful advice, Harry in turn had also learned how to handle her moods.

Which was why he was one out of exactly three people who could tell when Hermione was actually _gone_ because her thoughts had run away with her again and when she was faking it to avoid an uncomfortable confrontation. And as hard as it was to believe it, given the circumstances, Harry recognised the slightly glazed look in her eyes. She wasn't faking it.

Allowing his body to sink deeper into the comfortable seat he crossed his arms in front of his chest as well and busied himself with observing his friend. He'd give her two or three minutes to work out whatever problem she was pondering right now—she always got awfully snappy when someone broke her concentration without just cause—and then they would talk.

Hermione was pale, several shades paler than she had been at the end of the last school year. There were fine shadows under her eyes, a testimony that—like all of them—she had gone with too little sleep for much too long. But besides the obvious there were other signs, less obtrusive ones.

It was in the way her left hand shook slightly whenever she lifted it in an unconscious gesture of drawing random patterns into the air— _because it helps me concentrate, Ronald, now cease your incessant chatter if you please!_ It was in the hollow of her cheekbones that stood out sharper than Harry remembered seeing them in a long time. Since third year perhaps, when the girl before him had almost succeeded in working herself into an early grave. It was in the slump in her posture that even her painfully straight back couldn't hide, as though her entire body was sagging into itself with nothing but sheer will power keeping it upright.

And the worst was knowing that he really should have seen it. Harry knew his friend, he knew her better than anyone else—bar Ron—did, and he should have noticed that something was wrong days, maybe even weeks ago. Merlin, when had he last taken the time to truly talk with her? About something besides war and contingency plans and creating better warding systems? When had he last taken the time to simply stare at her while she looked at nothing the way she did now, a habit everyone used to tease them about because it was apparently creepy?

Harry didn't know.

"You're not talking," Hermione's voice mercifully interrupted his mental break-down and Harry blinked in surprise at her sudden return to the world of consciousness.

He scowled. It wasn't normally in his nature to act so distractedly, yet today everyone and their Slytherin year mate seemed to catch him off guard. He really needed to up his game, otherwise he would be eaten alive before dinner had even been served.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked and sternly reminded himself that his friend didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustrations. She wasn't even the real target, she was just there and Harry had sworn a long time ago that merely _existing_ would never be enough of a crime to be punished for.

Hermione looked straight at him then, brown eyes surprisingly cool. Surprising for those whom had never had the pleasure of meeting Hermione Granger at least, because—as most of the Hogwarts' student body had learned by now, the idea of brown eyes being warm by default was as much of a myth as Voldemort being dead.

"You're not talking," she repeated blandly. "You said you wanted to talk."

There was no question mark at the end of that sentence but Harry recognised an inquiry when it slapped him in the face.

"I've just realised what a terrible friend I am," he answered honestly. It wasn't much in the way of an explanation, but calling Hermione brilliant was nothing short of an understatement, so he didn't see the need to waste more time explaining a thought process she'd probably already guessed.

"I see."

He smiled at that, just a bit. "You're not going to disagree?"

"Would it change your mind if I did?" Hermione raised her eyebrows in a wordless challenge.

It was a reference to his tendency to blame himself for other people's mistakes—they'd been over that particular psychological weakness of his so many times none of them could stomach these conversations any longer, but that still made them the bud of a joke every once in a while—and Harry could do nothing but ruefully shake his head in reply.

He wasn't sure he'd ever get over that fault, wasn't even sure if it really was a fault or just an inherent part of his character he had to learn to work around. The latter sounded much more promising than the former, if nothing else.

It was fascinating as much as it was odd how much Hermione was able to read out of just a handful of words—and how utterly incapable she still proved herself to be of engaging into everyday social exchanges. But it was like Ginny had once told him; _the sea is as deep as it is shallow, the soul as pure as it is tainted_.

Or something like that.

"So," Harry drawled, unable to think of any way to draw this conversation out for a little while longer. "Are you gonna tell me what's bothering you?"

There, he said it. Asked directly even, efficient and everything. Just how Hermione preferred it. Ron would be so proud. If he wouldn't be laughing himself sick at their awkwardness that was.

Hermione nibbled on her lower lip, an old nervous habit that made her appear younger than she really was. "I'm not sure I can," she admitted finally, quietly, as though confessing a terrible crime.

"Just try me. I could follow your reinterpretation of the impact of physical forces when you factored magic into the equations," Harry noted drily. "I think I can keep up."

His comment—intended as a joke—earned him an irritated frown.

"You're not stupid, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed heatedly. "I don't know why you keep putting yourself down for our benefit, but you're _smart_. I'd like to think I've never told you anything else. But this isn't about intelligence, it's- I don't know, alright? I don't understand it myself, I don't get it! _I just don't know_!"

There was such raw desperation in her voice that Harry flinched back just a little. He cleared his suddenly way too dry throat, unaccustomed to such an emotional outburst from Hermione of all people, and eventually settled on a simple "Then talk. Just talk and I'll listen. Maybe we can make sense of it together."

Hermione smiled a little at that—probably remembering their fourth year, when they'd done this all the time, bouncing her thoughts back and forth between them when they got too much to be kept inside her head—but there was a glint in her eyes that turned her expression around, gave it an edge of _something_.

"There's no reason to return to Hogwarts," she said after only a moment of hesitation and those words were enough to break the dam. "And you still haven't told us why we're doing it! You have Ron calculate all kinds of eventualities and give me one project after another but you've never even told us what you're going to do about the prophecy, about Riddle! And I don't mind that you're keeping us busy, I don't mind that you're using our abilities to get things done because I prefer you over anyone else and I know you're not using _us_ , just what we can do! I don't care about that! But I care about _you_!"

Her left hand was drawing patterns into the air at a dizzying speed and every word that fell from Hermione's lips was sharp and cutting, even as her body started to tremble. Harry wanted to reach out to her, to hug her and hold her close, but he knew better than that. He knew better than to interrupt.

"You have no _bloody_ clue just how special you are, Harry! You're my best friend, you understand me even when I don't and I _can't_ lose that. I don't know where I'd be without you and I don't want to find out either, but you just have to be the most unreasonable git I've ever come across! You keep risking your life, you keep gambling on likelihoods and instinct and I can do nothing to stop it! I can't stop caring for you and I can't stop making stupid choices and mistakes because of it and-"

She stopped mid-rant and Harry couldn't remember the last time his best friend had looked so _defeated_.

"Hermione," he whispered. "I'm not-"

"Don't." The word was sharper than the dagger Harry kept hidden underneath his pillow. "Don't you dare and make an empty promise to me Harry Potter. We're both too intelligent to fall for that. Besides the emotional approach doesn't work with me, you know that."

She sounded almost indignant and the tension between Harry's shoulders eased a little at that. Oh, and how he knew it. He still vividly recalled her eleven year old self after the incident with the troll. How he'd tried to hug her and tell her that everything would be alright, only to have her push him away and tell him off for attempting to soothe her mind with empty platitudes when she was far to rational to buy into any of them _because highly intelligent people don't react the same way to such comfort, don't you know that?_ So instead Ron had calculated the probabilities of her being attacked by a troll again and Harry had researched a couple of spells to use in self-defence against one and for some reason that had been enough to make her sleep with a smile on her face for weeks. Not that Harry was aware of that last part, mind you.

"Not the emotional route then," he agreed and straightened in his seat. "I can't pretend to understand how unsettling it must be for you to be unable to figure something out, but the truth is that there's no guarantee that I'll survive this year. That's never certain. Even if there wasn't a Dark Lord and a blood-thirsty Order breathing down my neck I could still stumble on the moving staircase to the fifth floor and break my neck. Life doesn't offer certainty, Hermione. You know that."

It was a bitter truth that had almost cost Ron his sanity before he'd finally started to make his peace with it. He could calculate and predict everything he wanted, but there was always a margin of error, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant it may be. There was always something that could throw the equations off the balance, there were always actions that could not be properly predicted and it _killed_ Ron. Apparently it killed Hermione as well.

Harry reached out and took Hermione's trembling hand in his. It was a testimony to how far she had come that she didn't pull away from the physical contact even though she struggled to process it.

"Coming back isn't an illogical decision as you're well-aware. We've talked this through multiple times. At Hogwarts, we have resources. We have easy access to information. We can prepare and figure out our next step. Running around the country without a clue would be stupid, especially with the Order still firmly in charge of the school. Yes, there are risks, but there are risks to every path we could have chosen. And I can't promise that we'll make it, but I can promise that we'll give it our best. We have Ron, Hermione. We have you. We know our chances of success, we know that there _is_ a chance."

Hermione's fingers clenched around his own. "That's not good enough," she said frostily. "I don't doubt Ron's numbers, but we're banking on them with _your life_ , Harry, and that's just- it's not good enough."

Outside the window a familiar landscape flew by, the last remains of the warm summer months still hidden away in the bright, green grass and the open sky. Inside their compartment on the other hand there was no sign of a similar warmth. It was ironic, in a twisted, bittersweet way, that one of the most open, most _emotional_ conversations Harry had ever shared with Hermione was still so _cold_.

"We're doing the best we can. Rationally you know that," he ended up telling her because there really wasn't much else to be said. There were no assurances that would convince her completely because Harry wasn't capable of ensuring they would come true. There really was nothing he could do to ease his friend's mind, how ever much it pained Harry to admit that.

Hermione lowered her head, brown locks hiding her face from view. She still made no move to free her hand though.

"I know," she admitted weakly. "That's the worst part."

And Harry understood. Because, for perhaps the first time in her life, there was something Hermione couldn't rationalise, something she couldn't accept as the best possible solution and move on. For the first time knowledge wasn't the safety blanket she could usually rely on. For someone with Hermione's mind such a conclusion had to be—well, to be honest Harry wasn't sure how she dealt with this, if she was able to handle it at all.

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to help her with it either.

"There's nothing wrong with _feeling_ , Mina," Harry ended up saying. It was probably unfair of him to use the one nickname she had never complained about against her, but he really, really didn't care at the moment. "There's nothing wrong with caring about someone. It's what makes you human."

The words were scarily similar to the ones Ron had shared with him. It made Harry wonder if maybe both of them needed the occasional reminder of that fact.

"Rationally I know that as well." She sent him a tiny smirk. "Doesn't make it easier."

"No, I suppose it doesn't," Harry agreed. "But you're aware of it. You know your weaknesses. Now you can plan accordingly and adjust your decision making process to factor them in."

The smirk on her pale lips widened and when Hermione slowly pulled her hand free from his grip he let her.

"I hate it when you're the voice of reason," she muttered and the comment wasn't quite playful, but it was as close as she would ever get. It was more than enough.

Still. Maybe it was a remnant of a little boy locked in his cupboard, but Harry couldn't stop himself from asking. "Does that mean we're okay now?"

And maybe Hermione understood—like she always did—because her countenance softened considerably.

"We're always okay, Harry," she said forcefully.

It was as much a promise as it was a vow. 

_cross off the colours_

 The second Harry entered his fourth compartment in the same train ride, he fell into the closest seat with no plans on getting up again before he absolutely had to. That said seat wasn't as much a seat as it was Seamus' lap did not deter him in the slightest.

Damn, but he couldn't remember his previous train rides ever being so _tiring_. Alright, fine. That wasn't completely true. Riding Arthur Weasley's car in second year certainly hadn't been what one would call relaxing. Nor had his heart-warming encounter with the Dementor the year after that. And just last year he'd wasted most of his time unsuccessfully stalking Malfoy, which had really just been one big embarrassment for everyone involved.

Maybe Harry simply didn't have much luck with train rides. It would certainly fit, considering how inept he'd proven himself to be when it came to flooing and traveling by Portkey. Who ever said riding a magical train would be easy?

"Comfortable?" Dean laughed from where he sat with his arm around Ginny's shoulders.

Harry sent him a saccharine smile and purposefully wiggled around a little, ignoring Seamus' half-hearted protests, before he leaned his back against the other male's chest. Despite what the rumour mill would likely tell you Harry had found a very good friend in Seamus. He wasn't brilliant, but he was funny, open and _warm_ , like sizzling flames.

No, if anything it was his relationship with Dean Thomas that was—out of his dorm room at least—the most complicated one. Thankfully Dean was a fairly laid-back guy who didn't care much for unnecessary dramatics—and was also willing to overlook his personal issues with Harry in favour of working together against Riddle. Say what you want about the guy, but he sure had his priorities straight.

"Yep," he chirped happily, not letting any of those thoughts show on his face. "A little bony, but it will have to do for now."

The compartment exploded in laughter at that, almost drowning out Seamus' scandalised "Oi!" in the process. It was a well-known fact that the Irish male took great pride in his looks and body, which only made teasing him about it all the more fun. He still wore his customary good-natured grin though, so Harry wasn't all that worried about suddenly finding himself in a heap on the floor. Besides Seamus had an almost unlimited amount of patience when it came to Harry's antics, which was a rare and very much under-appreciated power, all things considered.

"'Sides 'm too tired to move right now," he proclaimed and promptly yawned.

"How come?" Seamus asked curiously, his arms reflexively tightening around him.

Both expertly ignored the cooing from Luna, who was still convinced that they could only overcome their nargle infestation together, and Neville's shit-eating grin. The shy, somewhat plump boy they'd met in their first year had really grown into himself over the last two years. From what Harry remembered it had started some time during the DA but that had only been the beginning. Successfully surviving a couple of run-ins with homicidal Death Eaters and dating sweet Hannah Abbot had really done wonders for the boy's self-esteem.

"People are _exhausting_ ," Harry complained—more like pouted, though he would deny it to his dying day—and burrowed his face in Seamus' shirt as though it could hide him from the rest world. It was certainly worth a try.

The blonde let him, chortling softly as he did so. "You have any new orders for us, boss man?"

Harry snorted and gently slapped the boy's shoulder. "You make it sound like we're part of the Irish mob when you talk like that."

"As if," Seamus sniffed, attempting to look down his nose at Harry and failing terribly at it. "As I am the sole representative of the Irish nation in this little vigilante group of yours, it should be obvious that we must be an international crime organisation."

Neville blinked. "But we're not doing anything illegal, so how can we be a _crime_ organisation?" he asked, causing Dean to slap her forehead in despair, murmuring "Really, _that_ 's the only thing you think is wrong with that statement?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Seamus shot them a look as though he couldn't believe he was supposed to suffer through their obvious lack of understanding even the most basic concept. Nobody present appreciated said look. "The Ministry is going to crumble the very second He-Who-, I mean _Riddle_ ," he hastened to correct at Harry's glare, "-knocks on their front door. And I should know, my mum works there. Now I don't like the red-eyed frea- _Riddle_ —will you stop hitting me?—anymore than the next halfblood, but if he takes over the Ministry he essentially becomes the government. Which makes us the terrorists trying to overthrow it."

There was a pause as everyone pondered that shift in perspective.

"I think it'll be fun playing the field from their position," Harry eventually said with a shrug.

"I've never been a terror-ists before. Do you think that's what Professor Flitwick meant when he told me I was allowed to try out different occupations before settling on one?" Luna wondered at the same time.

Another pause followed as the four other occupants regarded their friends with various expressions ranging from incredulity to amusement.

"I've never been a terrorist before, they say. I think it'll be fun, they say." Dean looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Merlin, the world is _doomed_."

Ginny gently patted her boyfriend on the head. "And we'll be right along for the ride," she told him with a smile that was as bright as it was dangerous.

  _cross off the colours_

 Approximately five minutes before the train reached Hogsmeade—the announcement to prepare themselves had already been made, resulting in a protesting Harry being forced to vacant his surprisingly comfortable seat so Seamus could change into his school robes—the light atmosphere was broken by Hermione who came barrelling into the compartment with no regard to the five wands that were immediately and unwaveringly pointed at her face.

Harry hadn't moved from where he was sprawled out over the window seat with his feet in an indulgent Luna's lap—apparently his small toe was attracting a magical creature she called 'Fangaris Fungus', the name being enough reason to not ask any further questions, and she was trying to figure out why hers weren't doing the same thing.

At the questioning look Ginny shot him he merely grinned. "Proximity ward," he said like those two words explained everything. And well, when you took into consideration that the whole DA had learned how to set up a security ward that would only be triggered by specific magical signatures under Hermione's tutelage, they kind of did.

"Thanks for the warning," Ginny snapped sarcastically, but put her wand away with a sigh anyways. The others followed her lead.

Harry remained unperturbed. "You're welcome."

It wasn't like anything stopped them from taking the same measures he had taken, and they all knew it. They might not be as bad as his Hufflepuffs but it was obvious that they'd let themselves go more than could be allowed during the holidays. Though how a holiday after their school's invasion and the subsequent death of the headmaster could possibly relax them still eluded Harry.

"I've got the list you wanted," Hermione announced, not even bothering to greet the others, even as she absentmindedly cast a _Muffliato_.

Thankfully none of them appeared all that ruffled at her clear dismissal of their existence. By now they were far too used to Hermione's single-mindedness when it came to one of Harry's _projects_. Never mind that she rarely acknowledged anybody besides Harry or Ron.

Harry took the parchment she waved in front of him excitedly and idly scanned the list. It was longer than he had hoped it would be.

"So basically, we know absolutely nothing about most of the Slytherins, half the Ravenclaws and a couple of Hufflepuffs," he summed up, a small crease growing between his eyebrows as he did so. "The Gryffindors?"

"No blank spots unless we get some new first years," Hermione replied instantly. "We haven't cleared them yet, but that will be done tomorrow morning."

At this everyone shared a collective grimace of disgust. Ever since the incident with Moody in fourth year the Gryffindor house had established—helped along by some pointed urging from Harry, Ron and Hermione—that nobody found the prospect of spending a year locked in a suitcase particularly inviting. So, to ensure that everyone was exactly whom they said they were, they went through a potions regime during the course of the first week that was supposed to dissolve all magical means of disguise.

So far those measures had proven themselves to be unnecessary since apparently every villain there was to find in the magical world was convinced that infiltrating the school via the one teaching post that never lasted more than a year before something unsavoury was revealed about the candidates was much less obvious than impersonating a student. Harry might have cried if their idiocy wasn't so damn useful.

"Alright, we'll start with the easy stuff. Neville, Dean, Seamus, can you get me copies of the school records of every student on this list?" Duplication charms really came in handy at times like these, he mentally acknowledged. "I want their grades, notes on their behaviour, detentions, point loss and gain, acceptance letters, medical files, _everything_."

"Sure thing, boss man," Seamus saluted, earning an eye-roll from Harry in the process.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That's the _easy_ stuff?"

His question was pointedly ignored.

"Gin, I need you to figure out the information on their family background. Track down the old heritage books, ask around for anyone willing to help you. Maybe Percy could get you some records from the Ministry, they might as well be useful while they're still standing. Facts, here-say, gossip, we need to know it all. Get together with the _Speakers_ for that, you'll probably need their help sorting through it all." Harry handed the girl another copy of the list, who simply nodded, a determined glint in her eyes.

Finally he turned to the youngest of the group, the blonde girl with the whimsical voice. "Luna, can you pass these names along to our little _Watcher_. She'll need to look out for these guys especially and—and I really can't stress this enough—tell her to be careful, will you?"

His voice turned almost pleading at the end, although all of them knew that his words would fall on deaf ears. There weren't many people at Hogwarts more prone to risking their lives for some ridiculous scheme or another than he was but they _did_ exist and it just so happened that he'd grown quite fond of one of them over the last few years.

"The bi-twirled rallymoths will let her know whom you're looking for," Luna stated in her usual, distracted way, her hands still fiddling with his toes. But her lips were drawn into a tight line and that was enough to let Harry know that the fair-haired Ravenclaw was just as aware of the seriousness of the situation as the others were. She was a sharp one, no doubt about that. Doubly so because nobody ever saw her coming.

"Thanks guys," Harry smiled, or tried to anyways. "I know I'm asking for a lot, so don't rush this, alright? The information is important, but it's even more important that we don't get caught getting it. Take all the time you need and double-check everything you can."

Having done at least the bare minimum of what he'd needed to accomplish Harry allowed himself a moment of simply staring through the window and letting his thoughts drift away, even as the train began to slow down.

"Hold on, I thought Hogwarts was safe? Why do we need to be so careful?"

He wasn't sure who asked the question and made no move to avert his gaze from the outside world to find out, but he answered anyways, almost absentmindedly.

"How many people at Hogwarts do you know for sure would give their lives to keep our secrets? For that matter, how many of them would you turn your back on in a fight?" he asked softly, mournfully.

For a home that would never be his home again. For a school that would never be as innocent and safe as it had once appeared to him. For an illusion of safety that couldn't withstand the reality of how things were.

No one had an answer to his questions and privately, Harry thought it was probably for the best.

  _cross off the colours_

Riding the carriages had been a bit of a strange experience, even for Harry's standards. For one it took him half the way just to figure out that the lack of his usual confrontation with Malfoy bothered him—it was _not_ because he had a crush on him, thank you very much for that mental image Ginny, it was simply because it was tradition. And because for just one short moment he'd forgotten about the devastating end of their last year, had gotten caught up in the familiar routine of the beginning of a new school year.

For another he was used to look forward to his return to school. It was his safe haven from the Dursleys, it was the first place he'd found friendship in and despite how things had a tendency of going straight to hell somewhere around March, he had a lot of great memories of his time at Hogwarts as well. This year though, it felt less like coming home and a lot more like _taking his last walk_.

Ron wasn't responsive yet, still scribbling into one of his many notebooks with a vigour he only ever showed when it came to food otherwise. Hermione was fairing a little better, though not by much. Apparently in desperate need to distract herself she was attempting to talk with Luna. Harry would never understand why she'd chosen her of all people. He loved Luna, quirks and nonsense talk in a very no-nonsense voice included, but she and Hermione had never clicked.

Granted, Hermione didn't exactly click with many people, but he still thought Ginny or even Neville would have been a better choice. Both had the patience to walk Hermione through the interactions without patronising her and were smart enough to entertain her, even if they couldn't match her intellectually.

But _no_ , of course he had to flee from yet another argument about the existence of nargles—wasn't doing the same thing again and expecting different results the definition of insanity?—the second the carriage finally stopped.

Yet even his irritation wasn't enough to trump the rising sense of impending doom he felt as he stared up at the open entrance gate to a castle he loved with all his heart. Looking back, that should have been his first warning.

_cross off the colours_

The Great Hall was never as chaotic as on the first day back from the holidays. One would think with a seven hour train ride the students would have more than enough time to get reacquainted with their friends, share their stories and adventure and, in some cases, settle back into their return to the magical world. Why else would the children be forced to take such a long journey when magic allowed for near instant travel?

As it was the train offered limited space and most where content to meet up with their closest friends and travel in the relative quiet of their compartment. Only to, on their way to the Great Hall, they suddenly got a glimpse at other familiar faces, fellow class- or housemates, members of the Quidditch team and so on.

So really, entering the Great Hall on the first day after the holidays was pretty much a fight-or-flight situation, not recommended for anyone suffering from claustrophobia, sensitive ears or pregnant.

Pushing through the crowd of people—and since when did Hogwarts have so many students?—Harry barely avoided falling over a tiny second year, only for someone to run straight into his back. He lost his balance and would have tumbled to the ground, rather ungraceful at that, if not for a group of Hufflepuff girls whom were hugging the life out of each other right in front of him and indadvertedly served as a great supporting wall, a cushioned one at that.

Groaning in a mixture of pain and embarrassment Harry freed himself from the poor girl that had the bad luck of breaking his fall, apologised and turned around to face his attacker. Off-handedly he hoped it wasn't Riddle because his back was killing him right now and he really wasn't in the mood to duck Unforgiveables in a crowd of milling students.

Fortunately his worry was proven unnecessary—and while he was at it, he should probably stop filing every time someone accidentally ran into him as an 'attack' on his person. On the other hand he was Harry Potter and there was nothing _accidental_ about his life, so maybe not—because it wasn't Voldemort who'd managed to personally sneak into the castle. Or if he had, he hadn't revealed himself as of yet.

It was a tall young man with a thin face, dull, blonde hair and shady eyes. _Theodore Nott_ , his mind supplied the name after a moment of silent evaluation. A Slytherin from his year. The second one this day. Dear Lord, he _really_ hoped his friends had miraculously missed this incident, especially since it seemed to have been completely unplanned on the offending party's side if the wide eyes staring at him in surprise were anything to go by.

A moment later Nott gained control over himself again, his face twisting into a familiar sneer. It was a pretty impressive one, Harry had to give him that, but he'd never been one to be deterred by threats. Not to mention that it reminded him a lot of Malfoy—whom he was _not_ missing, damn it!

"Potter," he spat with an applaudable amount of derision in his voice.

Harry blinked owlishly at him, not entirely sure how to reply. Apparently one unexpected Slytherin a day was all his mind could handle. And was it only his imagination or was there something different about Nott?

The Slytherin shifted on his feet, his disgusted countenance wavering the more time passed with no reaction from the Golden Boy. Harry himself was completely obvious to that, far too busy trying to figure out what it was that the other boy had changed and if they had ever interacted before the literal run-in seconds ago.

"Stay out of my way!" Nott finally snapped, probably meaning to sound imperious but coming of as sullen instead.

Harry would have told him so, if the other boy hadn't already turned his back on him—his back on him? What the sodding hell was up with the Slytherins this year?—and if Hermione and Ron hadn't chosen that moment to descend upon him like to enraged mother dragons. Really, not even the one from the Tournament had looked that angry, and that had been after he'd stolen one of her eggs, fake as it might have been!

"What _is it_ with you today?" Hermione hissed under her breath.

Harry eyed the wand in her right hand, almost hidden by the heavy sleeve of her robe, warily—the tip was glowing suspiciously green—and wisely chose not to answer.

Within a few minutes of being painfully manhandled Harry found himself in his usual spot near the end of the Gryffindor table, far away from the professors. You never knew if one of them didn't have Riddle growing out of their skull after all, a certain amount of distance was only sensible. Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ginny and Colin were seated nearby, followed by his other year mates and members of the DA.

He pointedly ignored the knowing grins they sent him and endured Hermione's rant about being more careful and keeping his guard up in public settings without complaint. The irony of him being subjected to the same lecture he'd given a couple of his friends only an hour before was not lost on him.

Giving Hermione the chance to get some of her residual annoyance off her chest had the additional benefit of allowing him to unobtrusively form a first impression of Hogwarts P.D.— _Hogwarts Post Dumbledorem_.

As it was it would be a couple of days yet before he could come close to passing a properly informed judgement, but there were some chances that already stood out. Most of the students had by now reached their tables, making it easier to get a good look at the hall as a whole, and though the air was filled with excited chatter it wasn't the same exuberance Harry had learned to associate with his first meal back.

Part of it was no doubt due to the, perhaps unknowing, influence of the professors. Most of them were familiar faces, though Professor Flitwick certainly looked more serious than Harry had ever seen him before and there was a foreign grimness in Professor Sprout's expression that made him very glad he'd given up on Herbology in his sixth year, but there were at least three people he had never seen before.

Of course Snape's expected absence, the ever present need for a Defence teacher and the less expected absence of the Muggle Studies teacher Harry vaguely recalled but couldn't remember the name of, did a lot in explaining the new additions.

It didn't escape Harry's notice that all three of them were male, had a strong built and faces he'd seen during the Order meetings, back when he'd still bothered to attend them. Great. As far as he could tell none of them had been the once hounding him until he'd hexed them into silence, but that didn't necessary mean they weren't sold on the let's-throw-Harry-in-Riddle's-path-and-see-who-makes-it-out-alive plan as well. It just meant they were clever enough to keep their opinions to themselves.

There were other differences as well though. There were no banners hanging from the ceiling, no ghost was in attendance of the feast as far as Harry could tell even though most of them loved to introduce themselves to the first years—or scare the living daylights out of them as the case may be—, and it looked like the Slytherin table had been placed slightly more apart from the other three. Although that last one was probably just his paranoia talking, Ron really was a terrible influence when it came to these things.

Finally there were quite a few empty spots on all four tables. Some of those missing faces Harry could barely recall, of others he'd known beforehand. Justin Finch-Fetchley for example was a Muggleborn from a wealthy family who decided that his chances of survival would increase significantly with a decidedly permanent move abroad.

Harry couldn't blame him, especially considering that he'd convinced his parents to help out a couple of less fortunate families as well. The Browns, the Jacksons and the Carringtons had all been evacuated with the help of their donation, and while it might not sound like much those were seven wide-eyed, magical children that would never be forced to try their luck under Riddle's regime.

Quite a few other families had done the same, others had simply refused to send their children back and then there were the ones whom had been killed during one raid or another. Su Li was such a case, as was a third year Slytherin boy named Caleb Montgomory.

And yet. If one considered the circumstances it was staggering how many students had chosen to return despite the dangers it involved, given how much of a huge target had been painted onto Hogwarts from the get-go—and that had been before Harry Potter had returned as well.

Harry's contemplation was abruptly cut off—as was Hermione's to that point still on-going rant and any other sound for that matter—by the echoing noise of the open entrance door being slammed shut with a deafening bang.

The Great Hall was, as the name would tell you, quite large and could easily accommodate double the amount of people that were currently residing inside and yet in the face of the unexpectedly closed doors Harry was unable to quench the sudden feeling of being _locked in_.

In retrospect that should have been his second warning.

  _cross off the colours_

 Uneasy murmurs rose from the students, many of which surely had to feel the same sense of foreboding Harry himself was unable to shake off.

"What in Merlin's name?" he heard Seamus mutter from his left and expertly ignored Ron's and Hermione's quarrel on his right— _"What's going to happen now?"-"I don't know!"-"Why don't you know?"-"There are too many variables, we don't have enough information, okay?!"-"Then what good are you?"_ —because their bickering would only serve to agitate him further.

"Look at the door!" Ginny hissed to from several seats down, so of course they all immediately whirled around to stare at- the closed, but otherwise fairly unremarkable door?

Harry squinted in suspicion. Ginny's instincts had yet to lead them astray, they were a lot like his own in that regard. When she said that there was something at the door then he wasn't going to waste his time doubting her and instead spent it trying to figure out what she had seen. As such he wasn't surprised—dismayed certainly, but not surprised—when the air to the left of the door flickered unsteadily for a moment before four men seemed to appear out of thin air.

"A disillusionment charm most likely," Hermione theorised under her breath, all the while retaining a hold of her wand in preparation of a possible fight.

The men didn't move to attack, in fact they barely reacted to the agitated students in any way. Harry did notice that all of them had their wands at ready though. But all they really did was spreading out to stand in front of the entrance door, _guarding_ it.

A sick feeling curled and twisted somewhere in the depth of Harry's stomach, even as the sharp, tinkling sound of a knife gently clapping against glass echoed through the Great Hall and successfully diverted the attention of the students away from the unexpected appearance of these not exactly trust-inspiring strangers and towards Professor McGonagall.

 _Headmistress_ McGonagall, Harry reminded himself, even though it didn't look like her new position agreed with the woman. She looked taller than he remembered her, but also paler, thinner, worn down. She looked like a woman who had lost her world, a woman fighting a losing battle, knowingly, but refusing to give up anyways.

"Welcome," McGonagall's strong voice rang through the silent hall. It had lost none of its sternness and Harry was glad for it, was thankful for anything that hadn't been changed and tainted, thankful for anything he could still hold onto.

His eyes darted back towards the men that had him—and his friends—tense, coiled so tightly they could explode into action at any given moment, because he didn't trust these guards enough to turn his back on them. For that was exactly what they were, from the nondescript black battle robes to the blank faces and stiff postures, guards.

It didn't escape his notice that they weren't guarding the entrance from the outside either, they were guarding it from _within_.

Home, sweet home indeed.


	4. Unsettled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seamus is an idiot, coincidences don't exist, there's Nott a single Slytherin causing trouble (which, to be fair, should have been a pretty obvious hint that there's something wrong) and clean hands aren't a cause of concern. They should be, but that's not the point. Or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good news: I've finally finished (most) of the plot for this fic and know now exactly where I'm going with everything. Some stuff, like the whole Voldemort situation still isn't completely cleared up (suggestions are always welcome) and I still haven't found a beta or proofreader, but overall I think this is working out alright.
> 
> The bad news: I sincerely apologise for the lack of Slytherins in this chapter. Rest assured, that'll be remedied. Soon. As in the next chapter soon. There's a lot of trio-and-friends!interaction though, I hope that counts for something.

_It is in our nature to resent changes brought on by force._

—Neville Longbottom

* * *

Harry's first week at _Hogwarts Post Dumbledorem_ was interesting. In a manner of speaking.

It wasn't the kind of interesting that usually applied to him during the school term. There were no Death Eaters leaping out of the shadows to abduct him, no magical artefacts enslaving him, and even a distinct lack of deadly, but _completely controlled_ creatures around the school was noted by its inhabitants. In fact, one might almost go as far as to call Harry's first week back at Hogwarts fairly uneventful.

One would, of course, be wrong.

_shade by shade_

The sorting went by quickly. In all his time at Hogwarts Harry had never payed much attention to it—when he hadn't outright missed it, that was—but hard to miss how short the line of stumbling, wide-eyed first years was this year. There were only seven of them, three Ravenclaws, three Hufflepuffs and one unlucky Slytherin who looked like he might burst into tears any moment.

The low numbers shouldn't have come as much as a surprise, it was after all different to let your child continue its education in a known environment than to send it off into the dangerous unknown. Still, Harry should have probably felt a bit insulted on behalf of his house that none of the first years had been sorted into Gryffindor, but he just didn't have the heart to do it. Not when an empty dorm meant more room for the rest of them, less security risks and less weaknesses they would have to protect.

Let the other houses worry about their little ones. His plate was full enough as it was.

Which was of course a metaphor, considering his plate was still very much empty, as his grumbling stomach so thoughtfully reminded him. Apparently McGonagall had decided to switch up Dumbledore's usual routine. Perhaps because she thought that a bunch of starving teenagers were more likely to pay attention to her than a bunch of sleepy ones. Or maybe she had noticed the way Ron kept eye-balling the guards at the door and had decided to take action now, in favour of having to clean up the bloodbath later.

Smart woman, that one.

Making a mental note to talk with Ron about his paranoia issues getting out of hand _again_ , Harry put his chin on the top of his folded hands and prepared himself for a long lecture on an empty stomach. With any luck, at least there would be pleasant news.

There weren't.

"Welcome," the headmistress repeated her words from earlier, sounding just as strong as she had then. "Some of you I am greeting for the first time today and most I am simply welcoming back for yet another year at Hogwarts."

Harry had to hand it to his transfiguration professor—or was that ex-professor now?—, she did an admirable job in the late headmaster's place. She didn't have Dumbledore's twinkling eyes and jovial smile, but he honestly didn't mind it as much as he thought he would. A joyous expression would have looked out of place in these somber times anyways. No, headmistress' McGonagall's stern face and sharp eyes were much more fitting for what this year would bring. And maybe under her strict hand, a semblance of the Hogwarts he'd come to love would prevail whichever end there was to come.

Pushing away those morbid thoughts that were more often on his mind than he would have liked, Harry forced himself to pay attention to McGonagall's speech again. It didn't have anything to do with the evil eye Hermione kept sending him. Absolutely not. It wasn't like she knew he had drifted off again, the girl was brilliant but she wasn't a mind reader.

Thank Merlin for small mercies.

"The last school year ended on a difficult note-"

It took all of Harry's considerable self-control, which's existence had been proven by the fact that—against all odds, as Ron would later claim—he did _not_ murder a certain defence teacher with a fanatical love for the colour pink, to not snort derisively at those words.

A group of Death Eaters had successfully broken through the _impenetrable_ wards Hogwarts was famous for and four people had been _killed_ , one of them being the famed 'leader of the light' Albus Dumbledore, defeater of the Dark Lord Grindelwald. 'A difficult note' simply didn't cut it. It was a miracle there hadn't been more causalities among the students as it was. In fact, Ron had been unbearable for nearly a week afterwards because he'd predicted no less then ten deaths and failed to figure out where he'd miscalculated.

"-and, as most of you are no doubt aware, the political climate is somewhat- precarious at the moment-"

Even from all the way across the Great Hall Harry could see the struggle in the woman's eyes, the way she fumbled—or as close to fumbling as Minerva McGonagall ever got—for the right words to both, ensure they understood the gravity of the situation and avoid unnecessarily frightening the younger students. It was no doubt a tricky balance to maintain.

"-certain measures have to be taken that you, especially the older students, might fight unpleasant, unnecessary and perhaps even unjust. I assure you however that they are none of these things and that we are doing our best to give you as much freedom and normalcy as the circumstances allow. Please keep in mind that these rules are enforced to guarantee your own safety as well as everybody else's-"

Those words were more than enough to earn the headmistress Harry's utter and complete attention. _Certain measures_ they might find _unpleasant_? He'd heard this kind of talk before. As a matter of fact, a very similar conservation had let to his first violent interaction with a particular stubborn Order member by the name of Nathan Grace. The problem with those pretty words McGonagall was currently sprouting was that they could be used to justify restrictions on even the most basic of human rights.

 _For their own safety_ , of course.

Harry had learned to hate those words even more than he'd hated the Greater Good Dumbledore was so fond of making sacrifices for. At least the Greater Good was usually used as a justification to put him into harm's way—which wasn't _good_ per say but it left him with an enemy to fight—whereas his _own safety_ was the kind of argumentation that lead to being locked away in a bunker or drugged out of his mind.

If it came down to it, there was no question which of the two options Harry preferred.

"The rules on what is and isn't allowed will be enforced stricter than you may be used to. Your luggage is being searched as we speak. Should anything of concern be found, the students in question will be called to their Head of House to explain themselves," the headmistress began.

Harry narrowed his eyes and exchanged a glance of silent understanding with the other DA members. It seemed they would get personally acquainted with the people in charge of this search very soon.

"A new curfew has also been set. For first through fourth year the new curfew from now on will be eight o'clock. Fifth year and above are expected to stay in their respective common room by half past nine."

Displeased murmurs rose at that announcement. It didn't matter which house they belonged to or how old they were, none of them appreciated this particular change. As nice and cosy as the common rooms might be, the entertainment they offered was limited.

"Furthermore you will not be allowed to leave the castle grounds for any reasons. And before anybody asks, the Forbidden Forest may technically count as part of the grounds but remains, as the name implies, forbidden. In accordance to this, all Hogsmeade visits have been cancelled until further notice."

"What?" Lavender cried with such disbelief that Harry was tempted to roll his eyes.

When even _he_ could see the sense in that last rule, shouldn't everyone else understand what a risk having a priorly set date for most students to leave the castle would be?

Apparently not, because Lavender's cry of protest was echoed all around the hall. McGonagall had to clear her throat three times before she could make herself be heard over the noise—though the sparks from one of the unnamed Order member's wand might have had something to do with it as well.

The additional announcement that their owl post would be searched for curses, dangerous content and other threat's to Hogwarts' security as well did little to calm the agitated students down.

All in all though, the new rules were not as terrible as Harry had half feared, half expected them to be. Most of them could even be called moderately justified and sensible. And terribly inconvenient, but they would just have to work around that. It was what they'd been doing since their first year after all.

"As you may have already noticed, Hogwarts has employed several trained witches and wizards to ensure your protection. You can recognise them by their black attire and the small insignia of a flame on their left upper arm," at this Professor McGonagall made a vague gesture in the direction of the four guards at the entrance.

"You may encounter them during their patrols in the hallways or when you leave the castle. They may also assist the professors during lessons, should any help be required. Please note that their main job is to keep you save. As such they have the authority ask you to hand your wand over, to search your person or your dorm room and to punish you, should you purposefully disobey them. They _will_ answer any attack on their person or in their vicinity with the required force. If you have any complains on their treatment of you, you are of course to come to one of your professors any time. At the same time if you ever find yourself encountering any trouble or believe your life to be in danger, do not be afraid to ask for their help. If you have any further questions, your Head of House will be at your disposal."

"Am I the only one who's being uncomfortably reminded of Umbitch's Inquisitorial Squad?" Seamus hissed from between clenched teeth, otherwise making a remarkable effort to keep his outrage from showing on his face.

Harry shook his head minutely, though Hermione's stony expression and the way Ginny's grip on her knife tightened until her knuckles were almost white really was an answer in itself.

As it was Harry knew better to start an uprising before the welcome speech had even been finished, as tempting as that thought may be. Besides who knew? Maybe those guards would prove themselves to be capable, virtuous fighters of justice and a great asset in the coming war.

One could always hope.

So instead Harry forced himself to accept McGonagall's words without comment and let none of his doubts regarding the 'improved wards' and other pointless blabber show on his face. Now was not the time for criticism, constructive or otherwise. The other students were restless enough as it was, some of the Slytherins and younger Gryffindors looked downright mutinous and the only thing worse than accepting the new restrictions would be the chaos that fighting them would inevitably lead to.

No, he wouldn't oppose these rules, not when he could see the logic in some of them and acknowledge the dubious necessity of the others. As for the guards, they had the potential to become either a great asset or a great hindrance. For now, he would watch them, observe their actions and reactions, and only then would he make a decision.

There was no time to explain his conclusions to his friends, but it didn't matter. They followed his lead without question—or at least without demanding answers at this very second—, their countenance dissatisfied but resigned.

On the bright side McGonagall had reached the end of her speech at last, after introducing the new additions at the staff table of course. The impossible tall, lanky male with the bald head to her right was revealed to be the new defence teacher Callander Edwin. Harry refused to pass an immediate judgment—though his chosen position certainly spoke against him—but at the very least they could be absolutely sure that Riddle wasn't growing out of the back of this guy's head.

Dean, Parvati and Neville of all people were already taking bets on how long this one was going to last and what would lead to his no doubt gruesome end. 'Attacking Harry' being—as usual—the overall favourite.

Seated directly next to The Dead Man Teaching was Julius Campbell, a name that had immediately caused several alarm bells in Harry's head to go off. The man had a round face, soft, brown locks and a slight belly that made him appear more like a jolly neighbour or a child's favourite uncle than the diligent fighter he truly was.

Until this day Harry had never actually met the man but while his face might have been unfamiliar his name was not. The general populace might be aware of it, but Harry had been present at enough Order meetings and spied on even more to know just how crucial Campbell's abilities had been during the majority of the Order's missions. He was one of the driving forces of Riddle's opposition, and the mere fact that the Dark Lord in question didn't even know it proved just how capable Campbell really was.

Which of course begged the question of why exactly Campbell was here, at Hogwarts, apparently teaching _Muggle Studies_ , instead of continuing his efforts to win the war from the shadows. One did not need Ron's keen sense of paranoia to realise that there was something _not quite right_ with the Order putting one of their strongest fighters essentially out of commission. And considering all the attempts Moody had survived on his life and Kingsley's quick rise through the Auror ranks, Harry was understandably reluctant to believe that every member of the Order was a completely useless moron.

The last of the trio—though trio was perhaps not a very fitting description, considering that this one sat on the other end of the staff table, as far away from his colleagues as physically possible—introduced himself as Reginald Mitchwell and despite his tan skin and dark blonde hair the man reminded Harry so much of Snape it was disturbing. He had a straight nose, small eyes and a pointed chin that gave off the impression of being sharp enough to draw blood.

But the similarities weren't so much in outward appearances as they were in mannerisms. Reginald Mitchwell's even face could have been attractive if it wasn't for the constant sneer he wore, almost as though he'd plastered the expression on his head with a sticking charm. His every movement was controlled and practical, to the point where Harry had to wonder if maybe some crazy magician had started to mess around with a muggle robot after all, and his voice was quiet and soft in the most unsettling way as he introduced himself to the appraising student body.

Harry would have accused the man of being a polyjuiced Snape if he didn't know for a fact that Snape had far too much skill to lower himself to a sad replica of Crouch Junior's plot in fourth year. The man wouldn't have been able to fool Dumbledore otherwise.

But striking similarities with the previous potions professor or not, all in all Mitchwell did not make much of an impression, be it positive or negative. Still, Harry vowed to keep an eye on the newbies. One could never be to careful.

That was also his justification as to why, as soon as the headmistress _finally_ started the feast, he proceeded to systematically hit first the tableware and than any food within reach with a complex revelation charm Hermione had taught him over the summer. Hogwarts' house elves were sweet, loving creatures, but Harry refused to bet his life on their overly trusting nature.

His friends rolled their eyes in exasperation. It didn't escape Harry's notice however, that none of them touched their food until he'd finished his careful inspection.

Lazy bastards.

_shade by shade_

"So we just sit back and do nothing?" Seamus' incredulous question cut through the buzz of conversation in the seventh year boys' dorm, breaking the light-hearted atmosphere immediately.

"We won't just sit back and do _nothing_ ," Harry corrected, making no effort to conceal his exasperation. "We're going to sit back and watch with our eyes wide open."

"Same difference," Dean snorted. He barely twitched when Ginny promptly hit him over the back of the head.

Those two had an odd relationship, Harry noted absently. They could be star-struck lovers one second and bickering children the next. And despite what the others seemed to think it wasn't the normal kind of bickering you found in most relationships. Their words were too sharp for that, their smiles too blood-thirsty.

"It's really not," Neville calmly cut in, deftly sidestepping yet another dramatic argument between the couple. "It's the first night back. We should at least give everyone a chance to settle in and observe those guards." His posture was the picture of relaxation but the quiet confidence the once painfully shy young man carried lent his words more weight than they otherwise would have carried. "Our past experiences with 'protectors' may not have been good, but we can't let those experiences ruin our willingness to work with other people. We need to be cautious, no doubt about that, but we can't afford being unreasonable."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Harry nodded.

"I still don't like it!" Seamus snapped. He didn't just look agitated. He looked furious. And his cold, blue eyes were focused solely on Harry. "That's what we agreed on back when Umbitch haunted Hogwarts too. And what happened? We were her prisoners in all but name, and that was what one woman accomplished whilst the Ministry still had some stability left and all the other teachers worked against her! And we still had to fucking _watch_ you being tortured for a whole sodding year! She could've killed you! Merlin knows, she was bat-shit-crazy enough to do it! I'm not going through this fucked up shit again!"

Harry swallowed. Even after all these years it was still odd to see people so determined to stand up for him. To see protectiveness ignite a deadly fire in Seamus' eyes. To see those intense emotions directed at _him_.

"That's not what we're doing, Seam." Ginny's gentle voice rang out through the quiet room, reminding Harry that he was supposed to make a point, not get teary-eyed about his friends' habit of obsessing over his safety and wellbeing. "I for my part haven't forgotten the damage that toad did. But what Harry's suggesting isn't repeating the same mistake, it's learning from it."

"The rules that have been implemented so far are reasonable," Hermione finally entered the conservation, though she still didn't bother to look up from her thick, ancient-looking evening lecture. Sprawled out across Ron's bed she looked almost at peace, if you ignored the wild way her eyes flew over the pages.

"Fighting them now will only diminish our credibility. If we antagonise the Order from the very beginning, we lose any support we might otherwise gain and harden their attitude towards us. This time we know the warning signs and we know what to watch out for. We won't be overwhelmed again. As soon as they overstep their boundaries, we'll act. No hesitation, no holding back." Hermione's tone was clipped, leaving no room for disagreements as she nonchalantly turned another page.

Not for the first time Harry wondered how anyone could possibly see the young woman's unforgiving expression and still see her as nothing more than a harmless bookworm.

"Fine, have it your way." Seamus lifted his hands as if to signal his capitulation, though his body remained tense. "But I'm gonna stay back and say 'I told you so' once the Order pulls some motherfucking ancient law out of their arse and turns all of us into breeding slaves without any rights in an attempt to prove that they've got bigger balls than Riddle."

"I wonder if Riddle's body in its current state is even capable of developing a copulatory organ," Hermione looked disturbingly fascinated by her line of thought.

The words earned her a moment of collective silence. Harry decidedly did _not_ think about what their bushy-haired companion had implied.

"You'd still be a slave along with the rest of us in that scenario," Ron finally pointed out. No doubt he was already calculating the likelihood of that particular set of events. And maybe the probability of Tom Riddle having balls.

Harry wondered how mentally scarring those numbers would be and resolved to never ever ask Ron or Hermione about it. There were just some probabilities he was better off not knowing.

"True." Seamus only shrugged, which probably meant that they were all becoming far too used to the way Hermione's mind worked. "But at least I could rub this fatal moment in your face for the rest of our pitiful existence."

Ginny hit him over the head with a pillow. "You're such an idiot."

"You sound surprised," Dean stated, sounding quite surprised himself as he stared at his girlfriend.

The conversation only went downhill from there.

_shade by shade_

The next morning found Harry being unceremoniously dragged into the headmistress' office at five o'clock in the morning. The only one less impressed with that particular occurrence than himself was, surprisingly, the aforementioned Headmistress.

"Potter," Minerva McGonagall greeted him with a curt nod before he even had the chance to fully enter the room.

If that hadn't clued him into the woman's terrible mood, the way she whirled around and stalked towards the other occupant in a manner that was eerily reminiscent to the billowing robes Snape had been infamous for would have done the trick.

"Now that the boy has joined us, will you be so kind as to explain why you decided to run my door down without any explanation?" McGonagall hissed furiously.

Harry blinked in surprise at the unexpected display. His former transfiguration teacher was known for her unwavering composure. To see her so out of it, for lack of a better word, was… disconcerting. But could he really blame her? The last months had to have been hard on her as well. McGonagall hadn't just lost a leader, she had lost a colleague and decades-old friend.

Reopening the school again and stepping into Dumbledore's footsteps could not be easy on her. And that was before one took into consideration the ever looming threat of Voldemort on the horizon and the war his eventual arrival would bring.

Besides being literally pushed out of bed after only a few hours of sleep didn't exactly help matters. True, Harry doubted anyone would dare to actually push the headmistress out of bed, never mind live to tell the tale. But her dishevelled appearance and the sleeping garments peeking out from underneath her outer robe made it obvious that McGonagall hadn't received a much more gentle awakening than he had gotten.

And on that thought Harry finally turned his attention towards the only other woman in the room who had apparently ordered him here. The woman whom, without saying a single word, had already made it onto The List.

It wasn't a list anyone would want to be on.

She was tall, a couple of inches taller than Harry. Long hair, too fair to be called blonde, framed her thin face in two complicatedly woven braids. The woman was dressed in plain, black clothes and the cool look she sent him made Harry's hand instinctively twitch towards his wand. There was a layer of steel in those eyes that had nothing to do with their grey colour.

"We have been working on the upgraded security checks," the still unnamed woman said in an unexpectedly raspy voice. On her nod, one of the men by her side stepped forward and carefully placed an nondescript trunk in the middle of the room. "This one could not be opened. Further investigation showed that it belongs to one Harry Potter."

There was no accusation in the woman's voice, but then, there didn't have to be. Harry forced himself not to bristle in reaction to her words nonetheless. A temper tantrum would achieve nothing, and truthfully he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

"Miss Frey," McGonagall said, when it became apparent that Harry wouldn't grace the woman's statement with a response. In his defence, no questions had been asked, so that they were even expecting a response from him in the first place was a little strange. "You've caused this ruckus at the crack of dawn because one of my off-age students had the foresight to secure his belongings from outside interference." The headmistress' eyes narrowed, impatience chipping away on her usually calm demeanour. "Which, might I add, is perfectly within his rights and certainly no cause for alarm. Do I understand the situation correctly or is there anything else you wish to add?"

Harry blinked. He had never regarded Professor McGonagall as his enemy but the fervour she displayed in this moment, in his defence no less, felt foreign to him. The way she pushed the other woman, Miss Frey, into a verbal corner without even a glance in his direction. Well. That was new.

Of course being pulled out of bed for something so tedious probably hadn't improved Frey's standing in the headmistress' eyes. And as Harry observed her pinched lips and tense shoulders, it suddenly occurred to him that maybe the students weren't the only ones being reminded of another outside force taking control of Hogwarts.

Frey too appeared to realise that this wasn't a battle she was going to win, if the way she closed her mouth as though to carefully think over her next words was any indication. Harry ruthlessly squashed the vicious satisfaction he felt at that. He hadn't painstakingly convinced his friends of the sit and wait policy, just to provoke these guards the first chance he got. Frey was clearly high up in whatever command structure these guards had. Petty spitefulness now might earn him an enemy they couldn't afford to fight later on.

"No," the woman said at last. "Nothing else comes to mind."

Harry didn't think he imagined the touch of irony that echoed in Frey's answer.

"In that case, please unseal your trunk, Mr. Potter," McGonagall commanded politely. "While I commend your caution, especially considering your precarious circumstances, all students are being searched to ensure Hogwarts' safety." At this, the headmistress stood a little straighter and added with finality, "There will be no exceptions."

Harry wasn't sure if they were expecting a fight from him but if they did, they were about to be disappointed. Not only did he agree with the precaution, there was also absolutely nothing incriminating in his trunk. It was too obvious a target to hold anything of worth. Even his treasured photo album and Sirius' firebolt had long been hidden away in the depths of the Chamber of Secrets. There at least they were beyond the reach of envious classmates and deranged teachers.

Without another word he strode towards his trunk, sank down until he could comfortably caress the ordinary, silver lock with one finger and, unable to help himself, he sent a quick wink into Frey's direction before he leaned forward and hissed, " _Forever, again and again_."

There was no mistaking the flinch of the adults' present at the inhumane sound. To Harry, it was a language and nothing more, albeit a very useful, melodious one. Though his friends preferred to call it creepy, with Hermione diplomatically described the the sound as "decidedly unpleasant", so maybe that was just another perk of speaking Parseltongue.

Ignoring the sudden spike of tension in the air, Harry calmly watched as a series of clicks emitted from within the lock before it turned into itself and the trunk fell open. Backing up a couple of steps he allowed the two security wizards at his back to do their job, all too aware of the way Frey was still watching him closely.

"That is… quite an unusual security measure, Mr. Potter," the grey-eyed woman remarked in an admirably unconcerned tone. She wasn't fooling anyone, but Harry truly saw no harm in answering the implied question.

"It's actually quite practical. I mean, the only one who could guess the password would be Voldemort," year-long experience kept Harry from reacting to the collective flinch with anything other than a reflexive eye-roll, "and I figure if he's made it so far into Hogwarts that he can play around with my luggage, I've got bigger things to worry about than some Death Eater going through my underwear."

Although the mental image of Snape holding his pants with the flying snitches would be a sight to see.

Frey made a non-committed noise in the back of her throat that made it impossible for Harry to tell if she believed him or not. He didn't much care either way, it was far too early to play politics. He could be courteous but that was all they were going to get until he'd gotten at least another eight hours of sleep.

Which was, sadly, unlikely to happen any time soon.

"Is there a particular reason you believe such- measures to be necessary?" One of the security guards who stood motionless by Frey's side asked, stumbling just the slightest bit over the words to describe Harry's gift.

Unable to help himself, Harry snorted. "I'm the _Boy-Who-Lived_ ," he emphasised in his best snotty Malfoy impression. "Even if I didn't have a madman and his psychotic followers after my head, I'm a celebrity. I'm not too fond of people going through my stuff like it's public propriety, using my belongings as their personal lucky charms as it suits them. Trust me, securing my trunk was one of the first things Hogwarts taught me out of sheer necessity."

And wasn't that true? Really, the amount of students the his dorm mates had to kick out during his first weeks at Hogwarts was downright ridiculous. On the plus side, all of them had basic security wards down by the end of their fourth year. Except for Hermione, obviously, who'd put them up after the Christmas holidays in their second year because there was nothing she couldn't do when she put her mind to it.

"May I go now?" Harry made no effort to conceal his growing impatience. It was one trunk, for Merlin's sake. What exactly did they expect, that he'd smuggled Riddle's body in it?

Neither McGonagall nor Frey answered immediately, both sending the two wizards bowed over his belongings an expectant look. It was probably Ron's paranoia talking, but Harry couldn't help but wonder if they _wanted_ to find something.

"All clear," the dark-skinned wizard on the left said after yet another muttered incantation.

"In that case, I apologise for the inconvenience," McGonagall cast a sharp glare into Frey's direction. "Mr. Potter, you are free to go. Miss Frey, in the future I expect you to only pull a student," the ' _or me_ ' was left unsaid but clearly heard by everyone present, "out of bed if the matter is indeed urgent."

It was obvious that the admonishment didn't sit well with Frey, so Harry grabbed his trunk and high-tailed it out of the office before either woman could drag him into their cat-fight.

But paranoid or not, he was certain he didn't imagine the eyes burning holes in the back of his head until the door swung shut behind him.

What a promising start into the year.

_shade by shade_

Breakfast that morning was an overall peaceful affair, if you ignored the death glares Harry sent everyone who dared to breathe too loud or in the wrong rhythm. Suffice to say that lack of sleep and a certain green-eyed Gryffindor were not a healthy combination, for anyone in his vicinity.

The security wizards, gliding like black shadows through the hallways, did nothing to improve the Gryffindors' mood. Ginny in particular jumped every time she noticed an unusual movement out of the corner of her eye and even the normally so relaxed Seamus reached for his wand a time or two.

"They should've worn pink uniforms," he muttered in annoyance on their way to Defence. "At least then we wouldn't confuse them with Death Eaters all the bloody time!"

The defence class room was already mostly full by the time the Gryffindors filed in. Harry was satisfied to discover that their customary places on the backside of the room near the window had remained untouched. It was almost a tradition by now and though he honestly doubted that a Death Eater would have passed Moody's investigation, he was none too keen to stay in direct reach of their newest teacher. Too many bad memories.

"Do you think it's a coincidence that we're paired with the Slytherins again?" Dean hissed from his place diagonally in front of Harry.

"Coincidences don't exist," Hermione replied matter-of-factly, at the same time as Ron answered, "Considering the way the Order operates, there is a 93 per cent chance that it's been done on purpose."

The two glared at each other.

"That's basically what I said!"

"You don't allow enough room for other possibilities!" Ron snapped back, pushing a hand through his bright, red hair in irritation. "Just because some of them are less likely than others doesn't mean we should just discard them."

Harry opened his mouth, intent to calm his friends down before their spat escalated into a serious fight, when a most unusual sight caught his attention. Two rows in front of him, another student had taken a seat on the one chair that used to remain empty during class. That in itself wouldn't be cause for alarm, the identity of the student however was.

It was none other than Theodore Nott.

What in Merlin's name was a Slytherin doing on the Gryffindor side of the room?

Harry knew the exact moment his friends took notice of their unexpected companion. His hand shot out almost on its own accord to grab a hold of Ron's forearm when the other male made a move to rise. Ignoring his friend's questioning look, he shook his head once, a wordless command.

With narrow eyes Harry let his eyes wander over the tense form of his Slytherin year mate. As though subconsciously aware of the inspection, Nott suddenly turned around. Inwardly Harry blanched at being caught so easily, but he refused to be the first to look away. Something flickered in Nott's dark eyes, something like defiance mixed with another emotion Harry couldn't identify.

Then their new professor, Callander Edwin, entered the room with brisk steps and the moment was broken. Nott turned back towards the front so fast, Harry barely saw him move. And if it wasn't for the white-knuckled grip the Slytherin had on the edge of the table, he might have written the exchange of as nothing important.

As it was, Harry didn't. Something was going on with the Slytherins, and he was absolutely sure that it was more than just his possible prejudice talking. Letting his gaze carefully wander over the other snakes, he couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary.

Malfoy's former seat in between Crabbe and Goyle was still empty, almost like a shrine to their absent leader. Otherwise the Slytherins appeared calm, if slightly wary. No doubt they were all too aware of their precarious position within enemy territory, should the Order decide to do something drastic.

"I hope you know what you're doing, mate," Ron muttered under his breath, though he had obediently relaxed back into his seat again.

Really, the only other thing that had changed was- Harry froze, his gaze locked on the seat in the third row to his right. Nott's former seat.

A seat in which Adrian Pucey now lounged with the sort of self-assured confidence every pureblood heir seemed to inherently carry themselves with.

"So do I, Ron," Harry whispered, not really intending for the words to be heard.

He hadn't forgotten those haunting, emotionless eyes, the complete lack of any form of humanity. He probably never would.

"So do I."

_shade by shade_

Defence with Callander Edwin was… different, to say the least.

That was the most diplomatic description Harry could think of, and even in the privacy of his own mind he couldn't fully suppress a disgusted grimace. Perhaps the worst part was his traitorous friends' obvious amusement.

_Sit back and watch. Give them a chance. Observe. Don't draw attention. Sit back and watch._

The mantra had been on constant replay in the back of his head and after two hours his resulting headache was worthy of Riddle's work on his better days. He had made a plan and Harry refused to go back on it. He'd endured Frey, he'd endured Seamus' challenging looks, he was not going to break his resolve for one irritating but overall inconsequent wizard, for Merlin's sake!

And he hadn't. But damn if it hadn't cost him every single ounce of self-control he hadn't known he possessed.

"So," Ginny drawled, clearly picking up on the tense air surrounding her friends and unsure what to do about it, "how was Defence?"

Dean snorted into his pumpkin juice.

Ginny raised a questioning eyebrow at her boyfriend's reaction.

"Professor Edwin's performance is satisfactory," Hermione replied immediately, paying no mind to Neville's and Seamus' obnoxious grins and Ron's sympathetic glance. "He is not a gifted teacher and certainly not an impartial one, but he appears willing enough to actually teach something and has a fairly good grasp of the material."

Harry rolled his eyes at his best friend's answer. It wasn't that she was wrong, Hermione was never wrong. It was just that, well.

"I'm going to murder that man in his sleep!" he snarled, the fragile control over his ire finally snapping.

"Harry," Hermione warned, soothing instead of scolding. An unspoken reminder that stabbing his fork so hard through the steak that the plate underneath began to fracture was _not_ part of the public image they wanted to maintain.

"Alright, clearly I'm missing something." It was a statement, not a question, but there was no misinterpreting the demanding gleam in Ginny's eyes.

"Edwin is a despicable, rotten excuse of a human being, _that's_ what you're missing!"

" _Harry_!" This time, Hermione's rebuke was sharp. "You're being irrational. He's not that bad."

"Easy for you to say," Harry accused, albeit careful to keep his voice low, well-aware that they were in plain view of students and teachers alike. The Gryffindors close enough to listen in knew to keep their mouth shut, but even that would only protect their privacy so much. "All _you_ had to do was listen and take notes!"

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Ginny interrupted their quarrel with an ease born from year-long practice. The fire in her eyes though belied the rising viciousness behind her politely worded request.

"Well, you see," Ron trailed of, apparently lost on how to explain this latest development. "It's not that Edwin isn't competent. It's just that he appears to be…" here the redhead tried and failed to suppress a grin, " _slightly_ obsessed with a certain Boy-Who-Lived."

Ginny blinked, caught of guard by the unexpected revelation. Then her lips twitched.

"He's a groupie?"

There was no mistaking the amused twinkle in her eyes.

"Not you too!" Harry moaned in despair. "That man is impossible! It was like he didn't even notice there were other people besides me in the room! Not even fake-Moody was that focused on me and he had a creepy eye to help him!"

"Poor you," Ginny snickered, unable to keep quiet in the face of Harry's betrayed expression. "What is the world coming to, when even our esteemed Defence teacher isn't plotting your death anymore?"

Harry refused to dignify that with an answer.

_shade by shade_

The rest of the day passed thankfully uneventful. The only odd thing was that during their double period Charms, Nott chose once again to sit on the Gryffindor side of the room. But considering he made no move against them, nor tried to engage them in any way, Harry supposed that he could let it be. For now.

Seamus still wasn't happy with the waiting policy, but at least the Irish male had decided to focus his frustration on doing something productive. If you could count terrorising, _ahem_ , training the younger Gryffindors into a force to be reckoned with as something productive, which Harry most certainly did.

None of them had spoken about it, perhaps still unwilling to acknowledge the unavoidable truth that these children, the youngest of which were barely twelve, would soon find themselves on the front line of a battle they might not win.

At least, Harry admitted in bitter resignation, Seamus' drills could give them a fighting chance.

Hermione and Ron had buried themselves in their individual projects, Dean and Ginny had snuck off together to do whatever it was they did and Neville was on a scouting mission for the files Harry had assigned him. All in all, it was almost disconcerting how quickly the seven of them had fallen into their usual back-to-school routines.

Under normal circumstances Harry would have joined his oldest friends. He wasn't delusional enough to believe that he could help them, but there was something undeniably comforting in the quiet companionship the three of them shared. It never failed to amaze him, how Hermione would breeze through magical theories people trice her age struggled to grasp or how Ron would turn even the most complicated scenario into the simplest equation.

It was pure beauty in one of its least appreciated forms, and for that it was all the more precious.

And yet, for some reason Harry couldn't explain, he found himself unable to relax into his usual chair and enjoy his usual evening activities. There was just so much left to _do_.

They had to figure out the shifts of the new security guards. They had to find places that would be safe from the Order members to meet with their contacts in the other houses. They had to investigate the other Hogwarts students and finalise the Gryffindor security policies and protocols. More than anything else they finally had to figure out a way to deal with Riddle.

One that, preferably, wouldn't end with a bloody massacre and Hogwarts razed to the grounds.

It was only their first day back though. It was completely understandable that they hadn't gotten much work done yet. But that didn't stop the helplessness from creeping in, the terrible feeling that they were sitting around when they should be out there. Fighting. Doing something, _anything_ meaningful.

On a rational level, Harry knew that this wasn't how war worked. War wasn't all about the battle. In fact, compared to the time they spent sitting around, planning, training, _waiting_ , those battles were nothing.

It had never bothered him before. Of course, he had never been as conscious of the inevitable end they were all working towards either. Until the end of Harry's fifth year, he hadn't even known that there was anything besides a sick obsession that had kept Riddle's focus on him all these years. And, if he was completely honest with himself, it wasn't until he'd witnessed Dumbledore's murder that the weight of the prophecy had truly fallen onto his shoulders.

He had still been a child back then. Maybe, in some ways, he still was.

Wordlessly, Harry rose from his place between his friends, unable to stay even a second longer. Neither Hermione nor Ron payed him any attention, probably too far gone into a world of their own creation to notice his unease. The air of quiet concentration he usually cherished felt oppressive all of sudden, what with the unfamiliar restlessness crackling like electric currents beneath his skin.

It was already half an hour past the new curfew, not that anyone made a move to stop him from leaving. It was an open secret among the students that Harry Potter could get anywhere he wanted within Hogwarts, and you only caught him when he wanted you to.

As soon as the closing portrait hid him from view, Harry pulled his invisibility cloak over his head in one well-practiced move and slipped into the shadows of the hallway.

He didn't know where he was going yet, all he really knew was that he desperately needed to _move_.

_shade by shade_

There was something inherently calming about the Astronomy Tower. It was certainly an odd place to return to, but after almost running into five guards, three from the introduced security personnel and two Order members he hadn't recognised, the moving staircases and twisting hallways had become a little too claustrophobic for Harry's already agitated nerves.

The familiar way up the narrow stairs had soothed some of that anxiety, as had the feeling of an open sky above his head. It was probably wrong that a place that had seen so much pain, betrayal and loss should still emit so much peace, but Harry couldn't help it.

He remembered the nights he'd spent up here, sometimes alone, sometimes with company. Ginny's bright smile when he'd named the stars for her. Ron's legs bumping against his, because they weren't eleven anymore, and their old hideaways weren't as comfortable as they used to be. The echo of Hermione's steps when she'd chased after him up here, while the rest of the world was content to damn him.

The Astronomy Tower had been his safe haven once. The place he went to when the world got too big and too crowded, a place where he was locked away, yet never actually locked _in_.

It was his sanctuary, and not even Dumbledore's murder could change that.

Leaning with his back against the even stone wall, the invisibility cloak carelessly pooled into his lap, Harry closed his eyes for a moment and breathed easier than he had in a long while.

"You shall yearn for victory," a musing voice glided through the air, disruptive yet welcome, like a refreshing midsummer breeze, "you shall fear defeat. For, in these trying times ahead, a battle remains the only guarantee."

Soft footsteps sounded and Harry slowly opened his eyes to watch the slender blonde sit down cross-legged across him. As always her movements were gracious and effortless. It was her eyes, looking too big in her thin face, staring unblinkingly at him, that gave her the sluggish, absent-mindedly appearance she was known for.

"You've kept me waiting, Harry Potter."

Harry smiled despite himself. "Have I now? I apologise, Luna. I wasn't aware I was looking for you."

"No, I suppose you haven't realised it yet," sixth year Ravenclaw Luna Lovegood tilted her head in curiosity. "How odd."

To be fair, there were a lot of odd things about Luna. Every time Harry thought he'd finally figured her out, or at least understood what she was talking about, she suddenly twisted and twirled and left nothing but chaos and uncertainty in her wake.

Harry loved it.

"Why is that?" he asked, unable to help himself. He liked playing along with whatever scheme Luna cooked up in that pretty head of hers. It was always entertaining and more often than not turned out to be incredible useful later on.

"You came where you needed to be without knowing what it was you needed. That's unexpected, don't you think? Odd," Luna drew the last word out, widening her lips comically as though she wanted to roll the word around on her tongue, taste it for all it was worth, "Odd. O-d-d. I quite like this word, I think. People should use it more often, don't you agree? 'Strange' just doesn't have the same level of oddity 'odd' has."

"Maybe it was meant to be," Harry joked, easily skipping over her ramblings. A grin formed so effortlessly on his lips that he found himself wondering why it had taken them so long to take this shape on. Luna had that effect on people, sometimes. She was just so… lightening.

"Nothing is meant to be," Luna shook her head wildly, causing her long hair to get entangled with the butterbeer cork necklace around her throat. Not that she seemed to notice. "And as such everything is."

Harry slowly stretched his legs out in front of him as he mulled over the Ravenclaw's words. Luna did not believe in wasting her time or speaking needlessly, which meant that he was probably missing something. Again.

"You know, sometimes I still wonder if you can see the future. You just- know so much."

It was a ridiculous notion, Hermione had ensured that he knew that. For even in the unlikely event that the Luna did have some talent for precognition, true seers could not remember their visions. And the Lovegoods didn't have one in their family tree, as one of their research projects in fifth year had proven.

And yet, sometimes, when she watched her surroundings with those big, protrudent eyes of hers, Harry was almost certain that she knew things, _saw_ things that nobody else did.

Of course all Luna did in the face of his implied question was smile dreamily at some point over his left shoulder.

"I keep my mind open. You should try it sometimes."

There was no accusation in those words but their bluntness made them sting nonetheless.

Harry sighed.

"Is there anything you can tell me?" he asked despite himself.

Immediately, Luna's eyes sharpened and refocused on him with such a single-minded concentration that Harry found himself avoiding her gaze before he even realised what he was doing. Luna was so _soft_ most of the time, it was easy to forget the layer of hardened steel lying underneath.

"What is it that you want to hear?" she asked, almost snapped, right back.

"I don't know."

"But you do."

Harry smiled again, a humourless, little thing. "Knowing that everything's gonna work out alright would be nice."

Naturally that wouldn't happen. He didn't need Luna's confirmation to know that. Except maybe he did.

And maybe she knew that too.

"Death doesn't discriminate and neither does magic. Many will fall before the end, and their faces will belong to friend and foe alike," Luna stated. Her eyes had lost that startling focus but her voice was just as cutting as before. "I don't need the nargles' whispers to know that. There can be-," here, her breath caught for just a moment, "There can be no magic without a price, no victory without sacrifices."

Harry found himself closing his eyes, as if to unconsciously brace himself against the impact of her words. But when Luna continued, even her voice had lost its harshness, leaving nothing but gentle whispers behind.

"It is an odd, scary thought, don't you think?" Her silvery eyes remained fixed on a corner slightly to Harry's left, and he suddenly realised with painful clarity that it was the spot where Dumbledore had fallen she was staring at. "That no matter the crimes one commits, their faces may still be pretty, their smiles still genuine. No matter the amount of blood one has on their hands, a hand full of water will always be enough to wash them clean." She lifted her hands then, inspected them in the shallow moonlight. "That's the most terrifying thing about monsters, I should think. That we do not recognise them, until they see it fit to reveal their true nature."

And as Harry thought of Tom Riddle's charming smile, Lockhart's effortless popularity, Crouch Junior's simple trickery and Snape's single-minded devotion, he couldn't help but agree whole-heartedly.

But the thing was, Luna Lovegood was not the kind of girl to remain stuck in the past. She rarely even bothered with events that had already come to pass, and her words gained a whole new meaning in light of her vested interest into present and perhaps even future. Harry swallowed.

"What is it you're trying to say, Luna?" he asked. Aware that he truly didn't want to know, yet unable to let it go.

Luna blinked at him, as though she had already forgotten he was still there. Her words sounded raspy, dazed almost, but her eyes were clearer than Harry had ever seen them be.

"Not everyone who walks on the side of the angels is truly among their own kind, Harry Potter."

_shade by shade_

A confident knock pulled Mirandella from her thoughts and the young woman found herself face to face with Ramon Jenks, one of her closest friends among her colleagues, before she even had the chance to open her mouth.

"Jenks," she greeted the broad-shouldered, tanned man and felt her muscles tense in anticipation. It was a reflex, probably a redundant one at that, but in these times one could never be too prepared. "Has something happened?"

"No, Miss Frey," Jenks answered immediately, his deep voice resonating in the small office. "The castle is quiet, nothing out of the ordinary has been spotted so far. Although Moody has requested a list of the students that triggered the security checks to be sent to him at your earliest convenience."

Mirandella just barely managed to suppress a derisive snort, more than certain that Alastor hadn't done anything as polite and respectful as 'requesting' the data they'd collected. Still, from the twenty-three students that had questionable objects in their trunks, none had really piked her interest. Most of the items in question had been joke material from that Weasley shop. There were a couple of borderline dark books they confiscated, but nothing truly dangerous or valuable.

In that regard at least, the controls had been a complete waste of her team's time, albeit a necessary one.

No, it were another seven students altogether that had been brought to her attention because of this. Hannah Abbott, Zacharias Smith, Terry Boot, Luna Lovegood, Eveline Winter, Dennis Creevey and, of course, Harry Potter. None of them had anything of interest within their trunks. It was actually their trunks themselves which had drawn Mirandella's attention, for it wasn't every day that she came across an object warded so well, none of her men were capable of opening it. That nothing even remotely suspicious was found once the students had been asked to open the trunks for them only highlighted Mirandella's suspicion.

You didn't go through all that trouble for some clothes and a couple of school books. There had to be something she was missing, she was sure of it. Not that she could prove it.

Staring down at the two lists in her hands, one of the students who had been proven guilty and one of the seven who had been cleared beyond all doubt, Mirandella made a decision and handed Jenks a copy of the first one. The second one she nonchalantly slipped underneath yet another folder filled with pointless paperwork.

"This is the information Moody is after. Get it to him immediately, we both know patience is a virtue he decidedly lacks."

The two shared a companionable smile before Jenks nodded his head with an acquiescent, "Miss Frey."

It was when he'd almost reached the door that her old friend turned around one last time.

"Before I forget, Moody also wanted to know if there was anything unusual about Potter's trunk." There was an ironic smile twitching at the corners of Jenks' lips.

For just a moment, Mirandella paused, considering. But in the end, the decision had already been made.

"Tell Alastor that he needs to let me do my work or do it himself. And then you may let him know that there was nothing remarkable about Potter's luggage, except that he used a password in Parseltongue."

Her voice broke no room for arguments but Mirandella was observant enough to catch the beginnings of a frown on Jenks' face.

"Miss Frey?" he asked.

They had known each other long enough for Mirandella to catch everything he didn't say out loud. The fact of the matter was that none of their curse breakers, and they were excellent curse breakers indeed, had been able to break through the enchantments on that damn trunk. It didn't matter that none of them spoke the correct language, no simple password ward would have been able to keep them out. Mirandella knew that, and so did Jenks.

"You have your orders, Jenks," she allowed her voice to sharpen dangerously and waited for her subordinate to bow his head in wordless acceptance before she continued. "Also, keep an eye on Potter and his friends, but don't let _anyone_ notice you. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, contact me immediately."

"Of course, Miss Frey."

**End of Chapter 4**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Harry plans to stay out of trouble. Adrian plans to keep his distance. Kingsley plans to convince Harry of the danger of some of the students. The trio plans to start their research on Riddle's horcruxes. Nott plans to avoids Harry. Unsurprisingly, nothing goes as planned.

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is being cross-posted on ff.net under the title 'How our choices define us'. Also, English is not my native language and I don't have a beta reader at the moment. (Offers anybody?) I apologise for any mistakes.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed the writing! And don't forget, you're always welcome to share your thoughts in a comment ;)


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